Horry Patter and the Philologer's Stone
by fawnmod
Summary: Horry Patter was a boy who lived under the stairs in a cupboard, and had no friends. One day, a giant man appeared and changed everything. Updates Tuesdays
1. Chapter 1

Ch. 1

 _The old man—hands shaking—touched the book and said, "I'm looking for a story about a man looking for stories…" he closed his eyes, and turned to a page._

Horry Patter is an unremarkable child. One would think that living under the stairs in a cupboard would find its way into everyday conversation, but Horry does not have any friends, so it doesn't. Even the mystery, intrigue, and downright improbability of a cactus-shaped scar running across his forehead would usually draw the occasional lingering eye—the offhand comment—but it doesn't. Not for Horry. Because he lives in a cupboard under the stairs. And he does not have any friends.

Horry's unremarkability does not, it seems, arise from any particular lack of CuriousQuality. For sure, Horry is chock full of that. More accurately, Horry simply never has the opportunity to be remarked upon. Because he lives in a cupboard under the stairs. And, well, he does not have any friends.

He places his palm on his door, and gives it a gentle nudge. A sliver of light illuminates his meager living space—books and rumpled sheets—a long since burned out bulb hangs, still. The walls are bare, save for old maps torn from fantasy novels, pinned in place with used staples. Usually, Horry wouldn't be so daring to take a peek in the daylight hours, but Uncle Durbly is, to put it mildly, making a ruckus.

"NO SOLICITORS." he screams, slamming the door for the fourth time that afternoon. A crucifix rattles askew by the door.

Horry can't see, but he hears muffled protestations from the other side of the door. The front door windows look to be in shadow, despite the apparent midafternoon sunlight pouring over the spotless kitchen across the hall.

Uncle Durbly turns, scowling, and lumbers past the stairwell. His hand slams the cupboard closed.

"Closed, boy!"

Horry counts to ten in his head, and then pushes the door open again. The shade in front of the door diminishes suddenly, and light returns. Curious.

"CLOSED!"

Horry jumps, as his uncle slams the cupboard shut once again.

"What do we say about _repetition_ , _boy_?" the lock rattles into place. Horry frowns. No dinner tonight, then. He climbs back onto his sleeping mat, and grabs one of the books he's read a hundred times.

The afternoon passes without too much fuss. Occasionally, Horry hears the sing-song voice of his aunt from the kitchen, usually opposite a baritone grumble from his uncle. Eventually, the earthy scent of potato soup wafts to the stairs, and Horry's mouth begins to water. But he waits, silent, except for the occasional crinkle of a turned page.

Chairs screech across tile, and plates clatter. Horry jumps at the sound—stirred awake from a nap? Supper must be done. He picks the book up from where he'd dropped it. A fresh crease runs along the first hundred or so pages. He sighs.

A sideboard near his pillow creaks aside, and a plump hand holds out a bread-roll.

"I'm sorry Horry,"

"It's okay, Dobley," Horry takes the roll. The hand disappears.

"He—he knows it's your birthday. I'm sorry."

Horry nods, as his cousin puts the board back in place.

If Horry thinks about it— _really_ thinks about it—drawing his mind's eye to that uncomfortable knot of pain halfway piercing his stomach and heart, he _knows_ this wasn't how children are supposed to live. He knows that something is broken. That his uncle is broken. That his aunt is broken. That even his cousin is broken. And most of all, he _knows_ that he himself is broken. But it's the sort of crack that slips out of your mind, if you don't keep it in focus. It settles into a sort of _normalcy_.

And so Horry doesn't dwell on it. He reads his books, he keeps to himself, and he even takes the occasional pity-scrap of food from Dobley—compressing that painful knot into a space so small that he can barely feel that it's there. It allows him to have days like today—where he doesn't really feel much of anything at all.

The front door rattles furiously on its hinges.

His uncle screams—continuously—as he stomps to the front. The cupboard rattles as he passes, and Horry can barely make out a "—NOSOLICITORSNOSOLICITORSNOSOLICITORS—" in his uncle's furious wail.

Then, there's a wet crack, and Horry's room explodes.

Horry's ears ring, head aches, and body buzzes. And he's covered in wood splinters. He looks around, in a daze. His aunt is…screaming?

The cupboard door is mostly pulverized. White and red chips puncture the surface, kind of like a dartboard. Actually, most of the living room is covered in the red and brown and white shards. Horry, dizzy, peeks out of his hole and surveys the space.

A positively gigantic man stands at the epicenter of a cone of devastation, next to a red smear and what used to be the entry-way to the house. He holds himself delicately, as if trying to avoid breaking anything, and actually manages to look apologetic, despite his massive beard and grizzled features.

"'Woz jus' tryin' ta open tha door…" the giant trails off as he spots Horry. Aunt Pelilah screams, continuously.

"Bugger me, tha tabloids're true." The giant steps—carefully—over the red smear, flicks his hand at Aunt Pelilah, and she crumples to the ground, silent.

"Sorry 'Orry, been tryin' ta reach ye. Yar uncle thar is…eh…woz quite tha…ehh. Hmm," the giant trails off, concern crossing his brow.

Horry feels a twinge in his neck, and touches it. It's slippery—wet—like something is protruding? With motion not fully matching his alarm, he paws at his chest, which is also wet. He touches the protrusion again, with his other hand, and passes out.


	2. Chapter 2

Ch. 2

 _The cellar creaked open as he considered the question. Then he laughed—he laughed and laughed. "Cost?" he stepped down into the dark. "It's worth everything that could ever be."_

Horry awakens to the all-encompassing sensation of safety and wellbeing. Which is his first indication that something is utterly, horribly wrong.

He's alone, in a great stone hall. Row upon row of roll-out hospital style beds line each wall. Warm light streams through windows between each bed, covering everything in a soft glow. The otherwise hard-angled stone walls, ceiling, and floor appear welcoming and soft in the ethereal light. Two rows of beds to his left, occupying the entirety of one wall, stretches a metal door, and fifteen rows to his right is a canvas partition. The canvas is only a couple meters tall, though—far shorter than the ceiling. Harry can see that the hall seems to extend significantly beyond the 'wall' of canvas, off into the far distance.

Horry stands, touching his neck. The skin is smooth—unblemished. Curious. The floor is warm, too, like stepping on the dirt around a summer campfire. Not that he's ever been camping. Or sat next to a fire. The action of stepping on it nonetheless presses the idea into his thought. Not obtrusively, though—a gentle shove—a forced reminder. He pushes the thought out of his head and rubs a temple. He lingers to the window adjacent his bed, and his jaw drops.

The castle is enormous to the point of being nausea-inducing. Where the interior buzzes with warmth, the exterior evokes… _hostility_. It _looks_ cold and sharp and forbidden. If he focuses his eyes on any individual turret or parapet for too long, the features in his peripheral vision seem to _shift_ , drawing his eyes away, as if the castle is continuously slowly rotating, just out of view. Even the decorative gargoyles seem to be moving—always a meter or two off from where they last seemed to be. He focuses on the closest one, for _some_ point of reference, and it turns its head, locking eyes with his.

He yelps, tripping backwards to the ground.

Panic rising, he hears echoes from the other side of the door, as someone approaches.

"Nope." Horry says, standing. He sprints to the canvas curtain, and tears it aside. The hall beyond has the same sort of disorienting _wrongness_ as the castle, even though it's covered in that warm, welcoming glow. It also genuinely doesn't appear to end—beds upon beds line each wall out to the vanishing point in the infinite distance. He swallows, and sets off down the hall.

After fifty or so bed's worth of distance, he hears the metal door creak open. The echo reverberates down the hall. It occasionally echoes back and forth, until the sound is wholly swallowed by the unending passage. Horry slides to a stop, darts behind a bed, and peeks back towards the canvas. He hears voices, but they're featureless in the muted echoes.

" _A rude awakening, hm?"_

Horry screams. Spinning, he slides backwards across the floor crabstyle. Behind him, by the window is an _ancient_ man. He has the ambiance of a wizened professor—all tweed coat and proper—but from a decades old style. He seems bemused, but his eyes are deadly serious.

"W-what?"

" _Three times my boy, and this is the first. While I wish it had been later, we'll have to make due. Can't change the terms,"_ he smiles, sadly.

" _Don't trust the old man. Learn as much as you can. Don't pay too much attention to the nonsense about souls—they're deeply confused minds flailing for some semblance of order in an orderless world. And most important of all, befriend the librarian. Goodbye Ha—,"_

"Mister Patter!"

Horry spins. A matronly woman wearing a hat with a red cross looks down upon him. Horry looks back to the window, and the ancient man is gone.

"What…what is going on! Who are you!" Horry, scoots further away from the woman.

Her face softens, "Ah," she says. "Everything is going to be alright Mister Patter,"

"That really doesn't answer any of my questions!" Horry stands, keeping his distance.

"My name is Madame Pamplemousses. I am the school nurse. You've been in an accident, but there was no lasting damage done, although I imagine it may have been…Mister Patter?"

Horry continues stepping backwards slowly, turns, and breaks into a run. A sudden bone rattling-crack knocks him to his feet, and in front of him stands a _ridiculously_ ancient looking man. Where the curious professorly fellow had been old and wrinkly, the new man looks to carry the weight of millennia. His robes sag, and his hat—once pointy in a bygone era—dips below his shoulders.

"Horry—," he says, reaching out with a gnarled hand.

Horry hyperventilates, scooting back towards the nurse-looking woman—Pamplemousses?

"Horry, everything is going to be okay. You're in a safe place now. Possibly the safest place there is," the wizened man smiles. His teeth are grey and black. Horry hyperventilates faster.

"Alvin, this really isn't working," the woman sighs.

The old man—Alvin?—frowns, and a stick appears in his hand. He flicks at Horry, and then there is darkness.

Horry awakens again, in a panic, but he's alone. He's in a completely different room—stuffier—his bed but an alcove in a wall. Wood-paneled all around, it smells like old books, probably from the wall composed entirely of dusty novels at his feet. Light trickles in from a small, circular window, and a ladder leads to a basement—or maybe storage for more books? Horry edges to the window and looks out. He sees a generic forest, and the dull, grey, uninviting sky that can only be Britain.

Horry turns and runs a hand along the wall of books. Alphabetical. He nods, approvingly. He locates the sci-fi novel he had been reading at home and slides it out. But he freezes. And blinks. A crease runs along the first hundred or so pages.

A door—or rather, a wall he hadn't even realized _was_ a door—rattles with a gentle knock. Horry jumps.

"Y-yes?" he says, retreating to the alcove-bed. Drawing the sheets around himself, he eyes the escape ladder to the basement.

"I apologize Mr. Patter, it seems we have begun entirely with the wrong boot, so to speak. May I open the hatch?"

"Um yes, but please don't come in," Horry says.

The door rattles again as the old man slides a hatch aside. Horry can only see the side of his face, in profile.

"H-how did you get my books!" Horry almost yells.

"Ah," says Alvin. "Well, I did not get your books. If I had to wager, the _room_ did. But that probably does not answer your question either, now does it?"

Horry's grip of his book tightens.

"What is actually going on! Is…is my…is Uncle Vernors…? Where am I!"

The old man heaves a great sigh, and collects himself.

"Horry, when most people first learn that magick exists, they are stunned—flabbergasted—knocked to their britches, if you will. But learning that magick exists does not really answer any question. It raises more and more. That is something of a recurring theme of magick, you will learn,"

"The castle-was moving? That was magick?"

"Ah, yes. The castle has something of a mind of its own," Alvin smiles to himself.

"But, more importantly, learning of the existence of magick is like a peeling of the bandaid. This expression makes sense to you, yes?"

"Yes, sir, I think."

"It is sudden—shocking!—but the shock fades rather quickly, and it becomes the new normal. Like being told that everything is made of atoms, say. It's another true fact about the universe. Like electricity. Or those points of light in the night sky being yet more stars just like our sun."

"To be honest, sir, I don't completely follow. And…I think you still have not answered my question."

"Indeed." He says. Then, again, "Indeed. Horry, your uncle…" the man trails off.

Horry's heartrate jumps, and tears fill his eyes.

"Horry—," he pauses. A pipe appears in his hand, and he takes a deep puff. Then shakes his head. He continues:

"Horry, your uncle doesn't have a soul."

Horry stops. He blinks a tear away, "Wait, what?"

"Nor your aunt nor cousin. Nor anyone you knew, I think. It's a different sort of shocking, for sure," the old man continues, "Magick? It's a familiar sort of fantastical, but souls? Much heavier stuff. Many moggley-folk never really seem to get over the fact when they first learn it. They refuse to believe it, even!" the old man is rambling now.

"Wait, sir, my Uncle is okay?"

Alvin pauses. He swivels the pipe around in his mouth, and blinks.

"Heavens, my boy, you thought your uncle was dead?"

"Y…yes!" Horry cries, relieved—, "I saw, he was—the giant man—there was an explosion!"

"Goodness no, Horry. Poor Horbid couldn't kill a man, even one as foul and as, well, soulless as your uncle. It was rather unpleasant though, I imagine. I believe Horbid accidentally swapped most of the front of your foyer, including your Uncle, with a pocket of space comprised entirely of highly compressed bovine viscera. You'll learn more about that in your third year, I suspect…" Alvin trails off, lost in thought. As if suddenly remembering something, he continues:

"Anyway, it's important, Horry, to understand how our world works. You will see many a fantastical, magickal thing at this school, but few will talk about the soulless with anything other than derision. Most will not talk about them at all. It is not fair, but it is the way things are," Alvin frowns.

Horry realizes he has more than a thousand additional questions at this point, but one in particular seizes his thoughts:

"How do you know—that moggley-folk? Don't have souls?"

"Because I've seen heaven," said the old man, sorrowfully.


	3. Chapter 3

Ch. 3

" _It was a joke, my boy. That's all it ever was. It was a joke made_ flesh _."_

The old man paused, lost in thought again, then, with vigor, "Anyway! That's enough heavy business for now, I think. To answer one of your earlier questions, this is Chogbort's. It is a school for Warizards and Wekka. Should you agree to attend, which I very much hope you do, you will find it to be the preeminent magickal education institute in the world,"

Horry's head spins. None of this makes any sense, and he feels…suffocated. Ironically, it doesn't help that the walls seem to be expanding around him, barely slow enough to notice.

"I can go home?"

The old man clearly didn't expect that. He plucks the pipe from his mouth, brow furrowed, "Of course Horry, you can go home any time you wish. But, do you really _want_ to?"

Horry can hear it in the way the old man says it—that he _knows_ what that entails, that he can _see_ the crack in Horry's home life. Horry winces.

"I…another man. An old, um, professor. I saw him back at the hospital. He told me not to trust you,"

Alvin freezes, and then thinks for a long time—probably a solid minute of silence. Then, "That is peculiar," he sucks on his pipe, and puffs in contemplation.

"Well, you have me at a disadvantage. It _is_ more sage advice than I could ever give. More honest. Hmm," he puffs again.

"I don't suppose it would help to tell you we have magick to establish trustworthiness?" Alvin asks, rhetorically, "No, no, the boy doesn't have any reason to trust magick. More reason to _distrust_ it, in fact. Hmm," the smoke curls around his face in wispy knots.

"But…" Horry starts, and the old man looks at him, direct.

"…he also said to learn as much as I can. And to, um, befriend the librarian?"

Alvin cocks his head to one side, "Well that's positively mysterious, now isn't it? Though I do have suspicions regarding who the 'librarian' might be," he winks.

Horry draws the sheets closer. The room has nearly doubled in length—doubling the distance between Horry and the strange old man. At the same time, the walls and ceiling have crept inwards, almost protectively.

"I think I'd like to go home now," says Horry.

Alvin frowns, but nods. "Very well, Horry. The ladder there will take you back to your home. I don't know if I can gain your trust—I think trust can only really be earned, and I have certainly done nothing yet to earn it. But should you change your mind, simply tap this to your fingertip and say 'Chogbort's'," in a flourish, Alvin produces an ornately carved stick, and places it on the ground by the door.

"Farewell, Horry," he says, sadly.

"Goodbye, sir." The hatch slides closed, and Horry is alone.

Horry's stepped down the ladder, past rows and rows of books, and, after a wave of disorienting nausea, found himself in the middle of his room. The hole in the ceiling closed noiselessly as he regained his balance.

The room is much as he left it—books scattered about, sheets a bit disheveled. Even the novel, creased pages and all, sits by his bed, propped up against the wall as he'd left it. There's no trace of the explosion—the cupboard door is intact, and even unlocked.

Horry presses his ear against the door and listens, but there is only silence. Sunday service perhaps?

He creeps out, and turns the ornate stick around in his hands. Runes cover the surface, and one end is wrapped in leather or cloth—it's too worn to tell.

"Hm," Horry says. He paces through the foyer—intact and spotless—through to the kitchen. A single bowl of soup sits on the counter with a note.

 _Potatoes and cheese. Your favorite Happy Birthday. Love, Aunt Pelilah._

He smiles, and slides it in the microwave oven. While it heats, he sits at the table, and places the stick in front of himself.

"Chogbort's, huh?" he twirls it on the table.

"Have I gone completely mad?"

YES THAT IS CERTAINLY A POSSIBILITY.

He jumps to his feet.

OR, MORE LIKELY, THE EXPLOSION WAS FROM AN IRISH SEPARATIST'S BOMB. YOU KNOW YOUR UNCLE IS POLITICALLY ACTIVE. MOST LIKELEY, YOU ARE CURRENTLY IN A COMA, HAVING BEEN UTTERLY OBLITERATED BY THE ERUPTION, AND THE PAST FEW HOURS ARE YOUR MIND'S WAY OF GRAPPLING WITH THE INCONCEIVABILITY OF ITS IMMINENT ERASURE.

The stick slowly stops twirling on the table.

THAT IS TO SAY, IF I HAD TO WAGER, INSANITY AND COMA-DREAM-LOGIC ARE APPROXIMATELY EQUALLY LIKELY. QUITE UNLIKELY, IN RAW TERMS, BUT COMPARED TO SUDDENLY DISCOVERING THE EXISTENCE OF A MAGICKAL REALM RUNNING PARALLEL AND SEEMINGLY INDEPENDENT OF EVERYTHING YOU KNOW TO BE TRUE, CONSIDERABLY MORE PROBABLE.

"The stick is talking, isn't it?" Horry says to the room, frowning.

I AM NOT A STICK, MASTER PATTER, I AM A WAND. MORE PRECISELY I AM _YOUR_ WAND.

"And you can talk to me…because you're a magickal wand?"

IT WOULD BEHOOVE YOU TO TAKE THE OLD MAN'S LESSON'S TO HEART. THAT I AM MAGICKAL IS NOT AN EXPLANATION FOR WHY I CAN TALK. IT IS LIKE SAYING A BIRD CAN FLY BECAUSE IT HAS FEATHERS. IT IS FAR FROM A COMPLETE EXPLANATION, AND IN FACT MISSES THE POINT ENTIRELY.

"Are most magickal wands as prickly as you?"

YES.

Horry snorts. "So I'm crazy then?"

OR YOU ARE IN A COMA, YES, PROBABLY.

"Okay, fine, then how _can_ you talk?"

HOW DID YOU LEARN TO TALK?

"I..learned over a few years I guess?"

SO DID I.

"That isn't a complete explanation either!"

YOU'RE CATCHING ON. GOOD.

Horry clenches his teeth, and grabs the stick.

"Alright, fine, we're going to the park. Before my Uncle gets home," he shoves the stick in a pocket.

THAT IS NOT ADVISABLE.

"Why!" Horry yells, throwing up his hands.

BECAUSE YOU ARE BEING HUNTED.


	4. Chapter 4

Ch. 4

 _The old man froze, suddenly aware that he was being watched. "Even here?" he asked. He turned to look at you. "Of course it wouldn't be fair. Hah, of course!" and he disappeared._

At this point, Horry is simply tired. His surprisal—as it were—is exhausted. It's not that the stick isn't provoking an emotional response—to the contrary, Horry swims in an ever-present mixture of anxiety and horror, but it's a familiar exhaustion. No worse, say, than seeing a gargoyle, or running down an infinitely long hall.

"What?!" he says, more annoyed than concerned.

DID THE OLD MAN NOT TELL YOU ABOUT THE PROPHECY? AH.

Creeping into the bubbles of anxiety, fear, and nausea, Horry has the overwhelming sensation that something is standing behind him, staring at the base of his neck, about to pounce and tear him to shreds. He spins, but nothing is there.

AH. I SEE. I HAVE JUST READ YOUR MEMORIES. EVERYONE SEEMS TO HAVE DONE A TERRIBLE JOB OF THIS. I AM SORRY.

"Is there someone here? Are they, what is—what's hunting me! What prophecy!"

YOU ARE SAFE IN THE HOUSE. YOU ARE MAGICKALLY PROTECTED HERE. UNFORTUNATELY, AFTER YOUR MOST RECENT BIRTHDAY, MUCH OF THE MAGICKAL WORLD BECAME AWARE OF YOUR LOCATION, DUE TO THE TERMS OF A LONG STANDING COURT ORDER FINALLY EXPIRING.

"Why didn't the crazy old man tell me that before he sent me back?!"

POSSIBLY HE FORGOT. POSSIBLY HE SUSPECTED I WOULD TELL YOU. POSSIBLY HE SURMISED IT WOULD BE BETTER TO ALLOW A TRAUMATIZED BOY TO LEAVE THE STRANGE PLACE TO WHICH HE HAD BEEN KIDNAPPED WHILE UNCONSCIOUS RATHER THAN ATTEMPT TO CONVINCE THE BOY TO STAY, EVEN IF HE FELT THAT THE BOY WOULD BE SAFER AT CHOGBORT'S.

Horry's darting between the windows of the house, looking at each one in turn in a frantic circuit.

"Okay, um, okay fine, but, then…so who's hunting me?!"

THOSE THAT WISH TO BRING ABOUT THE RISE OF VOLTABORT—HE—WHO—MUST—BE—NAMED.

"What is a Voltabort—" but Horry's tongue was seized, and entirely out of his control he continued, if in a strangled tone, "he—who—must—be—named?" and fell to the ground, clutching his throat.

VOLTABORT—HE—WHO—MUST—BE—NAMED IS THE MAN WHO KILLED YOUR PARENTS. IN SO DOING, [classified], OCCURRED AND HE WAS DEFEATED. HIS FOLLOWERS BELIEVE THAT DESTROYING YOU IS A PRECONDITION FOR THE RETURN OF THEIR LEADER. GIVEN THE TERMS OF THE PROPHECY, THIS IS NOT A TERRIBLE GUESS.

"What. Is. The. PROPHECY?" Horry yells, making his fifth circuit around the house.

IT'S [classified].

The wand's description of the prophecy slips out of Horry's mind—Horry can tell the words are English, and that they're syntactically…not wrong? Inasmuch as magickal words make any sense in the first place, he can tell the wand is describing the prophecy, and that the description is _correct_. He just cannot actually surmise any of the content, whatsoever.

"I…didn't understand any of what you just said."

THAT IS BECAUSE THE CONTENTS OF THE PROPHECY ARE CLASSIFIED.

"But you know the prophecy?"

YES.

"And you just explained it to me?"

YES.

"But I can't understand it?"

YES. YOU'RE PICKING THIS UP QUICKLY. I AM PROUD TO BE YOUR INSTRUMENT.

Horry's tempted to snap the stick in half, as he makes his seventh circuit around the house.

YOU DO NOT NEED TO DO THAT. YOU ARE CONCEALED SO LONG AS YOU STAY HERE.

"I don't…I can't. I can't stay here! I get one day a week! One day a week when they're gone, and I can go to the park, and sit on the swing, and just and just and just _swing_ ," tears fill Horry's eye.

The stick remains silent, as Horry collapses onto a sofa. Horry hears the rumble of the garage opening.

"And now…and now it's too late. They're already back. And I haven't even eaten yet. And…" Horry begins to hyperventilate again.

"It wasn't okay, but it was—it was stable! And this magick stuff messed it all up, and I just—I just…" Horry jumps as the backdoor slams open.

"Boy!" roars his uncle.

MASTER PATTER, PERHAPS A BIT OF PERSPECTIVE.

"Boy, where are you!"

IN A JUST WORLD, WHICH THIS ONE MOST CERTAINLY IS NOT, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN TAKEN FROM YOUR UNCLE A LONG TIME AGO, AND PLACED SOMEWHERE BETTER.

"You've left trash on the table, boy!"

AND IN THAT BETTER PLACE YOU WOULD BE ABLE TO RECOGNIZE THAT THIS IS NOT, TO USE YOUR WORD, 'STABLE'.

Horry's uncle rounded the corner—red faced, scowling.

"On the sofa then? The sofa your Aunt just _cleaned_? Off, boy!" he screamed. Horry lay, curled in a ball. His uncle grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet.

"No," says Horry, and a solid bubble of light knocks his Uncle across the room. Uncle Vernors looses a strangled scream as he struggles back to his feet, and charges Horry.

"No….no no no no," Horry says, again crumpling to the ground. His uncle pounds against the wall of solid light—spittle flying off the corners of his mouth. Aunt Pelilah cowers in the kitchen, and Dobley hides behind her.

MASTER PATTER, YOU DO NOT HAVE TO GO TO CHOGBORT'S. BUT IN THIS HUMBLE STICK'S OPINION, IT MIGHT OFFER YOU THAT PERSPECTIVE.

The bubble intensifies, and Horry's view of the room blurs until it becomes fully opaque. Horry sits in silence for a time, his breath occasionally hitching, as he's bathed in all-encompassing white light. His breathing gradually slows, and he wipes tears from his eyes.

"What about…Aunt Pelilah. And Dobley?"

WHAT ABOUT THEM, MASTER PATTER?

The wand's voice is gentle.

"Will they…be okay?"

HONESTLY? PROBABLY NOT. WARIZARD LAW DOES NOT OFTEN ALLOW INTERVENTION INTO THE AFFAIRS OF THE SOULLESS. BUT HEADMASTER DOUBLEDOOR IS POWERFUL, AND WOULD HELP WHERE HE IS ABLE.

"Okay," says Horry. "Okay."

Horry takes the stick from his pocket, and touches the tip.

And the Durblys never saw him again.


	5. Chapter 5

Ch. 5

 _..._

It takes Horry an hour to open his eyes. Candle-light flickers in the cramped room that somehow has his books, and starlight filters through the small window. After his breathing steadies, he stands and looks out the window. Night-fog obscures most of the generic, woodland view, but a soft glow emanates from the trees—an eerie calm. Soothing. Each blade of grass flits back and forth in a silent breeze. Each tree limb rustles in ethereal peace.

Years ago, Horry had contemplated running away. Out the door, down the street, he had stopped, not because he was worried about his cousin or Aunt, or even how his Uncle might react, but because he missed his room. Under the stairs, barely 5 feet on a side—his prison, with every thing that he owned in the world. Dusty and wretched, his home and his treasure. Each book, read a hundred times, that he couldn't possibly carry with him—that he couldn't possibly leave behind.

An owl noiselessly perches on a tree—its head swiveling around, surveying the forestscape. Red light catches its eyes, and, with a passing fog-drift, it's gone.

Rather than leave his old books behind, he had stayed, he tells himself. Even though he knows that it's a half truth. As if the books couldn't be _replaced_. Dread bubbles up in his gut, but he pushes it away. Everything feels broken. Raw.

Despite its earlier chattiness, the wand remains silent for a long time. Otherworldly possessed magickal artifacts, it seems, have the good sense to let a boy mourn. Not that Horry can't use the company. Or, more precisely, Horry desperately needs the company, he just doesn't know what actual companionship feels like. To Horry, other people are mysterious vehicles that sometimes scream with the cry of a predator, but most of the time hide, cowed, as prey. Predators are predictable in that they tirelessly leverage circumstance to extract pain. In the same way, prey are predictable in that they reliably feel it. They feel it in very different ways, though. You would never see Aunt Pelilah share her pain—or try to mitigate it. The dynamic didn't allow it. _He_ would see. Each cry for help would welcome overwhelming, unstoppable retribution.

Couldn't he just disappear? Horry places a hand on the small window, and the room contracts around him. It isn't like being magick'd off to the far side of Britain healed any wounds. Little has been actually _solved_. Despite his escape, it seems all this magickal world had in store for him is yet more pain. He turns the incomprehensible prophetic words of the wand around in his head. Entirely, maddeningly useless.

In the far distance, Horry hears the echo of heavy doors opening and closing, as if a gentle reminder that he isn't completely alone. Strange—to hear the sounds of a home, and have to remind himself that the sound isn't a reason to be afraid. But it isn't really home yet, is it? Unknown magickal horrors probably lurked all around, ready to feast upon him in accordance with some unknowable prophecy. Trading known pain for unknown.

White wisps of fog fade into the trees, and on the edge of Horry's view, he sees the owl swoop down over the beginnings of a lake. On the owl's closest approach to the water, a tentacle whips out of the pond, and drags it under. Red eyes flash as it slips under the waves. Death throes of the bird sent a small wave lapping against the shore. _Safest place there is_ —Horry sighs.

Ominous, formless echoes begin to buzz at the edge of detectability, as if the room has decided that Horry's had enough quiet. Near the door, light peaks around the cracks—brighter, welcoming. A carpet has crept along the portal in the floor, covering it completely, and the bookshelves seem to stretch taller.

Prophecy or no, Horry can't stay cooped up forever. As much as he wants to disappear, he can't in good conscience turn down such a literal call to adventure—heroes from a thousand novels would frown upon him in the eternal apparently real afterlife. Gripping the wand, white knuckled, Horry wipes his eyes and approaches the door. Even this poor, traumatized boy has the heart for adventure—he thinks, gripping the door handle—defiant, terrified, anxious, and above all, emboldened.

Horry has made a terrible mistake. Ghosts, screaming portraits, animated suits of armor, and the ever changing topography of a malevolent castle have assaulted him in turn. After twenty minutes of frantic wandering, Horry is hopelessly lost—not that he ever knew where he was in the first place.

YOU ARE HOPELESSLY LOST MASTER PATTER.

"Thank you," Horry says, sliding against the wall below a portrait of a man humming to himself.

WHERE ARE YOU TRYING TO GO?

"I don't know! I thought…it would be obvious."

MASTER PATTER, CHOGBORT'S IS A LABYRINTH BY DESIGN. AND WHILE MOST OF THE FACULTY ARE HERE, THE STUDENTS WILL NOT ARRIVE FOR CLASSES UNTIL TOMORROW.

"Class starts tomorrow?! But I don't…I don't know anything! At all! About any of this!" Horry stands.

NEITHER DO MOST OF THE STUDENTS. THAT IS, IN FACT, WHY THEY ARE COMING TO A SCHOOL.

"You know what I mean!"

IT IS TRUE THAT GROWING UP IN THIS MAGICKAL WORLD HAS AFFORDED THEM SOME ADVANTAGES, BUT I ASSURE YOU, YOU ARE NOT NEARLY AS DISADVANTAGED AS YOU MIGHT EXPECT. MAGICK IS HORRENDOUSLY DIFFICULT TO LEARN, MUCH LESS MASTER. AND CHILDREN ARE FORBIDDEN FROM PRACTICING MAGICK WITHOUT SUPERVISION UNTIL THEY COME OF AGE.

"Well…is there anything I should know? Like, important stuff?"

THAT WOULD BE NEEDLESSLY EXPOSITORY. I'M SURE YOU'LL SORT IT OUT TOMORROW.

"Oi, 'Lo 'Orry!"

Horry spins, and the giant man that exploded his Uncle towers over him.

"Tho't ey herd ye talkin' to yerself! Wot ye doin' walkin 'round tha castle in the wee hours of te night?"

Horry swallows a tremendous bolus of fear, and stands tall—his fist shaking with his grip on the stick.

"He-hello. Um, I…I'm lost."

"No kiddin'? Oh and sorry 'bout that business with yer Uncle, 'Orry. Musta been a rude 'wakenin' to this magickal nonsense I 'spect,"

The giant man smiles and nods to himself, as if having identified the problem out loud has solved it, and continues: "I'm 'orbid. Groundskeeper," he winks, for some reason.

"Okay," says Horry. "Um, I don't really know what to do. I think this is my home now?"

"Oh! … Oh! Well tha's good!" Horbid smiles even wider. "I've lived 'ere for years! It's great!"

"Can I ask…how you know me? My wand hasn't been very helpful…" Horry feels the wand buzz in his hand.

Horbid cocks his head at Horry, confused, "Well, eh, yur famous 'Orry! Ye killed Voltabort-he-who-must-be-named." Horbid drones out the appellation, monotone—then shakes his head. "Yur 'ollow uncle never told ye 'bout that?"

Horry frowns, "My Uncle never told me much of anything. Just that my parents, uh, hm," Horry pauses.

"Oh yur parents were wonderful 'Orry. I wish ye coulda met 'em," Horbid smiles to himself, lost in nostalgia, tinged with just a hint of sadness.

"Wait, you knew my parents?"

"'A course, 'Orry! We went te school 'ere tagether. Loooong time ago, though,"

The revelation washes past Horry, and he feels nothing. And that bothers him. And it bothers him that it bothers him. He spent years when he was younger worrying about them—who they were, _how_ they were, even cliché things like if they still loved him and other nonsense like that. But after a while, he'd pushed it away into that hole where most things went that his Uncle might use to hurt him.

"They were magickal?"

"'A course, 'Orry. Yur mum was a powerful wekkan, and yur dad was a tricksy warizard. You will be too, I 'spect!"

"Hm," Horry says.

The giant, as if noticing for the first time that Horry is in something of an emotional Gordian knot, deflects, "Well, c'mon now, lemme show ye tha digs—library's just round tha corner," the giant man lumbers down the hall.

"Hm," Horry says again, following.


	6. Chapter 6

Ch. 6

 _The gold rush of 1925 was 'mitigated' among warizardkind when one enterprising wekkan discovered the recipe for a philosopher's stone. After mass production of the stone, the price of gold plummeted over the course of a week, sending the entire commodities market into a tailspin that eventually directly caused the Great Moggley Depression—though this has been thoroughly expunged from moggley records. To this day, gold remains one of their most cherished and, ironically, stable commodities. Quaint._

 _-A Companion to Introductory Arthimantic Ecognomics, 4_ _th_ _ed._

Horry realizes his jaw has been gaping open for several minutes when saliva leaks out of a corner onto his collar.

"An' this 'ere stack woznt quite this tall when I first got 'ere—I think it's growin', hah!"

The library is infinite. In every direction, the rows stretch in that nauseating way that Horry can't seem to get used to. Periodic bulbs illuminate the bookstacks, until the stacks grow so small, and the lightbulbs appear so close together, that the rows seem to end in pinpoints of light. Occasional balconies reveal that the library is not infinitely _tall_ , but it extends at least thirty stories both down and up from the entrance level. Horry can't help but loop in circles as Horbid advances.

The giant leads him to an immense desk occupied by a stern faced old woman.

"This 'ere's Madam Pounce. If ye need a book, she can prolly find it for ye'."

The woman glares at Horbid, and touches the 'Quiet. Always.' sign on her desk.

Horry stops spinning in place for a moment to consider the woman.

"Hi, um, I think someone told me to…be your friend?"

"That would be wise," she says, coldly.

Horbid, exhibiting more abject terror than Horry thought possible for a man of his stature, leads Horry around the desk, deeper into the stacks. He whispers, "Yeh, mebbe only talk to her if ye 'ave to…" he trails off. Horry frowns.

Every second or third stack, Horry spots a…warizard? Or wekkan? Simply perusing the stacks, waving their wands about, sometimes close, sometimes far in the distance.

"Maybe this is a stupid question, but, um, why are there so many people here? My wand said school isn't even in session yet,"

Horbid gives him that quizzical look again, but answers, "Well a' 'course people're 'ere, they're lookin' fur spells!"

"What…what does that mean?"

"Spells! They're lookin' in the books for more spells! Doncha know where spells come from? Ah! I s'pose you don't. Right. Magick right?" He flicks out his wand and waves it about, "We cas' spells with these, yeah? Well, those spells come from them there books,"

"But, who wrote the books?"

"What do ye mean?"

"I don't—in uhm, in the moggley? World? People write books. Do people not write books here?"

"A' 'course people write books 'ere, don't be silly 'Orry," the giant shakes his head, "But not in this 'ere library. These books _always_ been. Well, at least since that silly arithmancer made the library so big. But it's confusin', yeah? Cause the books 'ere always _were_ , even 'afore he did it. Right?"

Horry is hopelessly lost.

"'Ere, lemme show ye. Where's aytch, where's aytch," the giant lumbers off down a row.

"Nah, nah, it'd be Pee!" he lumbers back in a different direction.

Horry can't figure out what system the giant is using, but he seems to know what he's doing. The giant stops suddenly, and then climbs a ladder up twenty or so feet. After thumbing through a few books, Horbid nods to himself, satisfied, and tosses down a book at Horry.

Horry, nearly falling over, catches it.

 _Horry J. Patter, August 1_ _st_ _, 1982 – [classified]_

"What?" says Horry, dumbstruck.

"It's yur story, 'Orry!"

Horry sits, entranced, paging through the early parts of his book. The earliest stretches have the same cursed aura that garbles the words—he can see them, see that they're _there_ , and that they're the story of his youth, but they don't make any sense. Then there are chapters and chapters detailing his sullen life with the Durblys.

Horbid stands by a bit awkwardly, teetering back and forth on his toes.

"Yeaaah, I s'pose it ken be shockin' the first time. But 'erryone's story is already written, y'know?"

Horry jumps forward,

…

 _It took Horry an hour to open his eyes. Candle-light flickered in the cramped room that somehow had his books, and starlight filtered through the small window. After his breathing steadied, he stood and looked out the window. Night-fog obscured most of the generic, woodland view, but a soft glow emanated from the trees—an eerie calm. Soothing. Each blade of grass flitted back and forth in a silent breeze. Each tree limb rustled in ethereal peace._

…

Then a bit further—walking into the library—sitting down as Horbid tosses him the book—him sitting and reading it, utterly engrossed. Then, the same stupefying haze washes over the text. Horry drops the book and stands.

"This…this has everything. This has everything that will be?"

"Well yeh, but ye can't see it till it happens, right?"

"But it's _in_ there!"

"Yeh, but…" the giant trails off.

"Do…do you have paper?"

"Well no but, eh, I can get some…"

"Paper!" Horry nearly shouts. A prolonged, hissed, "SHHH" assaults him from all directions.

"Please!" he whispers.

Horbid, a bit worried, mumbles and waves his wand about, and hands Horry a piece of paper and a pencil that seem to have folded out of nowhere. Horry immediately falls to the floor, flips to a random later page, and starts transcribing the garbled, indecipherable text.

"Oi that won't work 'Orry. Jus' gonna be all nonsense till it happens, yeh?"

"But," Horry says, scribbling furiously, "I'll have written it down right _now_."

"Well yeh, I s'pose…look 'Orry, this ent s'posed to be a big ol' world shatterin' event. 'Is jus' yur book, right? 'erryone's got one!"

Horry flips more pages, and continues.

"But it's…it's it's _determined_. What if you knew, Horbid? What if you could actually read your book? Don't you see how that would change _everything_?"

"Well yeh, but ye can't!"

Horry sighs, stands, and inspects his atrocious handwriting. They're clearly words—English—just, completely nonsensical. Then, suddenly, as he rereads it, the first line _rotates_ into focus:

" _Paper!" Horry nearly shouted. A prolonged, hissed, "SHHH" assaulted him from all directions._

He even remembers writing it now, as if the motions of his hand just suddenly made sense. Horry's hand shakes.

"This 'ent even wot I wanted te show ye…my spell's just over there…" Horbid sighs.

Horry carefully folds the paper, and flexes his hand to steady it. Then, "You said…that every book is in here? That they're all written?"

"Well yeh! Me own books a good hundred paces that-a-way," Horbid gestures, vaguely in the direction behind Horry. "Kinda drones on a bit, if ye ask me…"

"And…and books have spells? That no one wrote?"

"Yeh, ye got it! Cos them books has always been!"

"Wait—what do you mean, you just said 'my spells'…everyone looks like they're doing weird motions with their wands and saying like…latin maybe? Can you only cast certain spells or something?"

"Oh no, 'errybody can cast any spell, s'long as they're powerful and whatnot. Here, lemme show ye. I dun think this one'll break yur noggin as much," Horbid winks, setting off down the aisle.

They walk for a time, and the bookstacks only seem to become more and more disorienting the farther they venture. Sometimes the bookstacks are lit by bulbs, other times by torches, rarely by candle, and the architecture blends seamlessly through a thousand different styles. The walkway alternates between wood and steel, ropework and imperceptibly shifting gears. It sounds like pages turning, like distant books tumbling to their sides—like a loose-leaf sheet flitting in the wind. The smell is always the same though: it smells like a library.

"Ahhh, 'ere we are. But first!" Horbid turns to face Horry and adopts something like a fencer's pose—holding his wand aloft, "Watch…this!"

" _Lucemus splendescerus urerie cunctas oculisa paulorio!_ " Horbid flicks his wand up down back and forth in precise motions, screwing up his face in concentration.

The tip of his wand shines a vibrant red, and bright red line shoot forth, connecting with every book in a six foot radius. Horbid grins. Horry jumps at the explosion of color, but spins around, looking at the thin lines of light in awe.

"That's…amazing Horbid. Does it locate books?"

"Yeh, points right te any book near ya. Found it meself in this 'ere book," he slides a thin volume off the shelf, handing it to Horry.

"Not tha most useful thing in the world, but it's mine. Worth a couple coin on the market, now!"

"You can sell it?"

"Ehhh, sorta? More like…could sell the uhh…number of the book? Buncha arithmantic nonsense it is. I just like me spell 'cos it looks quite grand. And _I_ found it, a'course" Horbid smiles.

Horry traces the cover of the book with a finger. The cover depicts a boy chasing a dragon—paging through it, it seems to be a children's fable—author unlisted. Along the spine is a sequence of numbers and symbols in a neat script.

"Aye, that's the number thar. Would need te ask Professor Tensor how to read it. It's…ehh, quite long."

When flipping through the pages, Horry spots one particular page that's been heavily annotated.

"Ah, yeh, that's where the spell is! Wozn't a puzzle or anythin' for this one. Jus' tells ye how to do it, pretty much,"

"Does it work on any books? Like, what if the book is empty, or has most of the pages torn out?"

"Ehh, I'm not sure. Don't use it that much t'be honest wit ye,"

"Can you show me again?"


	7. Chapter 7

Ch. 7

 _A great many reams of scroll have been spent praising the 'majesty' and 'beauty' of the Western European wand style, despite each and every soul knowing that these superlatives matter so little so as to be distracting, at least, or to be fatally dangerous, at worst. The purpose of a wand is not to beautiful—the purpose of a wand is simple: to Cut._

The Art of the Warizard _by Zhànzhēng Yuèliàng_

Magick actually does not make any sense.

After Horbid tried and failed to teach Horry the spell for a good ten minutes, Horbid suggested reading the book because, "it's how I learnt it, an' I'm pretty dull, so I 'spect you'll pick it up in no time t'all!", and then proceeded to go feed the "bladdernorxes" lest they make a "ruckus". Thus, Horry sits in a clearing between bookstacks, having teased out the correct motions for the spell, but he grows ever more flustered by how the spell seems to work. And, well, _not_ work as it were.

In front of him rests the fairytale where the spell was first written. Horbid was right—the book had a fantastically simple description of the spell, all told in rosy prose, describing how the child found a book to help him defeat the dragon. Next to the book, Horry's collected some loose sheets of paper in a stack, the top page of which reads, "Horry's Paper Pile," and next to _that_ another stack of blank sheets, save the top, which reads, "Horry's Totally Real Book,".

The spell launches a thin red line at the first and third 'book'.

Which would seem to suggest that the spell can either _read_ or is screwing with Horry. So Horry collected a _fourth_ stack, where the top page reads, "Horry's Totally Real Stack of Pages Which Is Identical To Horry's Totally Real Book Except For The Top Page," and the thin red line _also_ points at this stack. But it doesn't point to a _fifth_ stack labeled, "Horry's Totally Real Stack of Pages Which Is Identical To Horry's Totally Real Book Except For The Top Page And Also Is Not A Book,".

"So…books are things that I call books? Literally? Even if they aren't 'books'?"

WHAT IS A 'BOOK' MASTER PATTER?

Horry jumps—the wand had been silent for well over an hour—for the entirety of Horbid's library tour, as well as Horry's series of experiments.

Horry opens his mouth, but pauses. He can see the Socratic bear-trap lying in front of him, "They're—hard to put into words. I can list features of a book, but I'm sure you could give me an example of a 'book' that's missing many or even all of those features…but these piles of blank sheets are the same!"

INDEED. BUT ONE IS A BOOK, AND THE OTHER IS NOT.

"Okay, so if I just write on it," Horry kneels down and scribbles on the top of the "Horry's Paper Pile," stack an additional, "Which Is Totally A Book," and a thin red line erupts from his wand, pointing to the stack.

"What, so magick speaks _English_?"

I CANNOT IMAGINE HOW ELSE IT WOULD UNDERSTAND YOU.

Horry honestly doesn't have a response to that.

"But…but these stacks of paper clearly aren't _real_ books!"

The thin red lines falter, but hold steady.

DO YOU BELIEVE THAT?

"I mean, no, but you could make a pretty good argument! They're empty! And not even bound!"

AH, BUT YOU HAVE ALREADY NOTED THAT THESE ARE NOT NECESSARILY THE CRUCIAL FEATURES OF BOOK-I-NESS.

"Book-i-ness isn't even a word! You could just as easily argue that _I'm_ a book, like, as a metaphor, but just…as…," a thin red line erupts from the tip of the wand, pointing at Horry.

"Huh."

INDEED.

"But…but..," Horry trails off. The red line glows softly, and seems to point directly at his heart.

"But I'm…my brain isn't magickal, is it? Is it reading my brain? Did I just…convince the universe that 'books' are whatever I can convince myself they are?"

PERHAPS IT IS BEST TO NOT EVEN THINK IN TERMS OF WHAT IS AND WHAT IS NOT 'MAGICKAL'. INSTEAD, THERE IS A SYSTEM IN PLACE, AND THAT SYSTEM CLEARLY HAS RULES. WHAT RULE HAVE YOU DISCOVERED?

"That whatever I can convince myself is a 'book' can be, uh, sort of located by, um, moving my hands in this very precise way, and saying these very precise words,"

NOW, DO YOU THINK THERE IS MORE OR LESS AMBIGUITY IN WHAT IS OR IS NOT A 'BOOK' VERSUS THE MOTIONS YOU JUST MADE WITH YOUR HANDS, AND THE WAY YOU PRONOUNCED THOSE WORDS?

"More! Like, yes, okay, words can have different pronunciations, and I guess I could cast the spell while like upside-down or in different places…"

OR MIRRORED.

"Or..wait, what?"

MAGIC IS NOT RIGHT OR LEFT HANDED, MASTER PATTER.

"Wh-okay. Whatever. But, these are different kinds of ambiguity! These particular motions and words correspond to this particular spell. Otherwise, how can you even say a spell exists at all?"

WITH PRECISELY AS MUCH DIFFICULTY AS ONE MIGHT HAVE DESCRIBING WHAT A BOOK IS, I SUSPECT.

Horry sighs. "So if I can convince myself some other completely different motion is the same as the motion of the spell, I'll cast the same spell?"

NOT QUITE. IN THE SAME WAY THAT THERE IS THIS THING THAT YOU CAN RECOGNIZE AS A 'BOOK', THERE IS A DISTINCT THING THAT IS RECOGNIZED AS THAT SPELL. BOOK-I-NESS IS NOT SO MALLEABLE THAT IT CAN REFER TO _ANY_ THING, OTHERWISE, AS YOU NOTE, THE WORD WOULD NOT MEAN ANYTHING AT ALL. SPELL-I-NESS, THEN, IS RELATED TO HAND MOTIONS AND SPOKEN WORDS, BUT I WOULD ARGUE THAT THOSE PARTICULAR MOTIONS AND WORDS ARE NOT CENTRAL TO THE IDENTITY OF THE THING. REGARDLESS, I AM PROUD THAT YOU HAVE STUMBLED ACROSS THE BASICS OF PLACEBOMANCY SO EARLY IN YOUR CAREER. CONGRATULATIONS MASTER PATTER.

"Placebomancy," Horry says, nonplussed.

AN UNFORTUNATE NAME. EARLY MAGICKAL PRACTITIONERS WERE JUST AS CONFUSED ABOUT ALL THIS AS YOU, IT WOULD SEEM.

"Well, what is 'central to the identity' of, um, 'spell-i-ness'?"

THAT IS THE GRAND ADVENTURE OF WARIZARDRY, IN ONE QUESTION, MASTER PATTER.

"Oi, yur still 'ere, 'Orry!"

Horbid comes upon Horry's assemblage of loose-leaf sheets and furious scribblings. Horry sighs, and stands, "Alvin was right—every time I learn something more about magick, it only raises a hundred more questions,"

"Sounds like yur makin' good progress then!" Horbid laughs, "C'mon—there's more to this 'ere castle than books."

They sneak by the librarian, as quietly as they can, and exit back into the stony halls of the castle proper.

"How were the, uh, bladder…norxes?"

"Oh great, just great. They're tricksy beasts though—don't let ye remember much but how nice they were,"

"O..kay," says Horry, noticing that Horbid's left arm has a new, thick bandage around the bicep.

"They mean well, though. Really! C'mon, ye must be 'ungry." Horbid smiles. Horry realizes he hasn't eaten in over a day—his stomach emits a single, sharp gurgle.

"Yes please."

They enter a massive hall with five rows of tables—some mix of a cafeteria with an ancient cathedral—where each table extends from a wall, down the length of the hall. Above the foot of each table floats a…seal? A coat of arms? Except the fifth table, where a grey shield floats.

"What's all this?"

Horbid forces himself into the narrow space between the bench and the table, after considerable creaking and groaning, and Horry sits across from him.

"This 'ere's me 'ouse table. Grippenboor. 'Ouse of might and heroics 'n whatnot. Er, mebbe 'ouse of people that fashion themselves heroic-like? Godfrey Grippenboor was a 'ero though. Dragon'slayin' beast 'e woz," Horbid nods to the seal. Sure enough, a plate-mail clad fellow grapples with a lion-lizard thing in slow-motion.

"Then there's Hopplebops—good friendly folk, always willin' to save your sorry bum come exam time—ehh Ravenshards—thems, hm. They eh, let's say they think very 'ighly o' themselves. Then finally the Slyverins. They're, well, 'Orry, I don't want to colour yur impressions, now, but some o' them are just downright evil. Not in, like, ehh, a _moral_ sense, mind ye. Won't stab ye in the back, literal-like. Well, mebbe they might…" Horbid trails off.

"Most importantly, thems Slyverins are the arch-enemy-folk of us Grippenboors," Horbid's eyes widen as a bowl of soup appears in front of him. A similar, albeit smaller bowl appears in front of Horry.

"I get the feeling you might be a bit biased…" Horry says, poking his soup with a spoon. It… _smells_ good, but looks kind of like muddy vomit.

"Well, yeh, s'all in good fun though," Horbid gesticulates with his spoon, "Oh, and I guess there's that there _new_ house. Some fancy donor's tryin' te set it up this year. 'Aven't settled on a name yet, though. Buncha nonsense, messin' wit centuries o' tradition like that,"

"So you pick your house?"

"Hah, 'eavens no, it's already been picked, remember!"

"But…you said…"

"Ye, well, the Searchin' Hat is one of ol' Marlin's artifacts. All 'is stuff breaks some o' them rules. They plop it right on yur 'ead and it blurts out where ye'll be. Can only tell you wot 'ouse you end up in though, not much else,"

"But if _it_ can see into the future, doesn't that mean—ahh!" Horry plops his spoon into his soup.

"Horbid, that breaks everything! What if you force the school to put you in a different house? What if, what if you immediately leave? What if you just refuse, and only ever go to another house?"

"Eh, well, ye can't. Coz you're already in the 'ouse it tells ya! And why would ye leave immediately?"

"You can't switch houses?"

"Well, I mean, if circum'stance ehh _forced_ ye to, or the King said ye had to I guess…"

"Then how isn't that a paradox!"

"Well, I guess, err, coz it's never 'appened?"


	8. Chapter 8

Ch. 8

 _Commit. Lift the spectacle. Visualize freedom. Breathe. Tear through the burn and the ecstasy will elevate you. Bend. Commit. Increase weight. Breathe. Run until you cannot run, push until it breaks. Squeeze until it is crushed. Breathe._ Commit _. Conquest over your mind is conquest over your body. Your body is a vehicle for realizing goals. That vehicle is speeding at a cliff face, and you do not care. You will drill a hole in heaven if it means progress._ **Commit** _ **.**_

 _Better Life, Better Warizardry by Ronaldus Horbid_

For the remainder of dinner, after deciding that Horry's confusions regarding paradox and destiny could not be adequately satisfied by his understanding of the nature of the Magickally Real, Horbid attempts, instead, to explain a terribly complicated game involving flying and balls and points and entirely too much physical contact for Horry's comfort.

"Why don't all the players try to catch the _snikt_?"

"Oh well they 'ave a'fore! Worldly Cup, sum years ago—problem is, if the _snikt_ gets cornered, it starts changin' the rules!"

"That sounds…intentionally confusing,"

"Nah, not too bad. Audience gets a'mediate understandin' of the new rules. Players gotta sort it out right quick, though! More balls, less balls, more _players,_ more goals,no goalies, refs become players, points for blood, sides swap, players become balls—things like that. Usually better te let one poor soul chase the _snikt_ , than 'ave the rules changin' on ye constantly."

"Isn't that, like, super dangerous? Did you say _blood_?"

"Magick _is_ dangerous, 'Orry. It's 'alf the fun of et!"

Horry finds it difficult to adequately express how much he disagrees—so instead, he fills his mouth with the delicious, but disgusting-looking soup.

Horbid suddenly slams his palm on the table, "Blast, 'Orry, ye don't 'ave any supplies, do ye!"

"Oh, um, no? I guess I have a wand? Alvin gave it to me…"

"The ol' man jus' gave ye one o' them knockoffs? Ye di'nt even go to Olliwander's Wand Emporium?"

"I…I have no idea what that is." Horry's wand buzzes gently against his leg.

The man shoves the entire bench backwards and stands, "C'mon! Won't 'ave time tomorrow I 'spect!"

"It's like…two in the morning."

"That s'all right. Longitudin Alley's always open,"

"I..is it…safe?"

"Well a'course! I'm pretty good in a scuffle, too, if et comes down to et," Horbid winks.

Horry vomits the entirety of the vomit-colored soup directly onto a storefront window the moment the teleportation spell ends. It clings to the window—solidifying in the cold—sliding down—forming threads—taunting him, as if to say, 'This was inevitable. You knew this was inevitable, and so here we are.'

"Oi, sorry 'Orry. Forget 'ow rough that kin be on ye newbies,"

"It's…okay."

After Horry collects himself, he looks down the street, but this triggers another wave of nausea, and he dry-heaves. The street isn't actually as disorienting as Chogbort's to look at, but the architectural style evokes the same visual-busy-ness, as if everything is slowly rotating. Actually, everything _is_ slowly rotating. Horry retches again.

"C'mon lad, walk et off, walk it off," Horbid ushers him forwards.

Horry wipes his mouth, wraps his arms around himself, and trudges forwards. At some point, winter clothes wrapped themselves around him—during the teleportation spell?—but the cold still bites to the bone.

Despite the all-consuming night sky and brutally early morning hour, the storefronts are lit, magickally and practically. And are absolutely congested with foot traffic. Oddly dressed folks filter in and out of the businesses, carting around things Horry couldn't even begin to identify—horns, bones? Furniture? Glowing orbs and bladed weapons. Broomsticks and gems. Animals that definitely are not from any earth Horry knows. Animals that are familiar, but…wrong? Tiny horses. One elephant-sized bird that trumpets out a thunderous squawk. Horry keeps close to Horbid, but still manages to draw the occasional lingering eye.

"I think people are recognizing me?" Horry says, _sotto voce_ to Horbid.

"Well, yeh did defeat the Dark King, 'Orry. People recognize an 'ero, even if it's been a good decade or so!"

Horry, in something of a developing pattern, doesn't have much to say in response to that.

The pause in front of a bookshop, and Horry spots a pricetag in the window below a book.

"Oh, Horbid, I don't have any money,"

"S'Okay, 'Orry. Most o' this is free. Might 'ave to barter for tha more magickal stuff, but even then, most stuff ye kin make once, magick'll let ye make again even easier. Spells're prolly the only exception, there."

"Do I need any uh magickal stuff? Like that book there?"

"Not unless ye want to enter a whole world a' nonsense," Horbid says, somewhat cryptically. "Though, I s'pose yur parents 'ad some spells. We kin see 'ow much they're fetchin' on the market if ye'd like. Less get your summer readin' first, though. Nobody reads 'em over the summer, don't ye worry,"

The mention of his parents triggers that same wave of non-feeling—a hook in his attention, but no associated pain or sadness or … anything really. Horry frowns, nonetheless.

They enter the bookstore which, after having seen Chogbort's library's majesty, feels woefully inadequate—though Horry muses that being finite is never something he thought he would hold against a bookstore. The space of the store _is_ screwy though—it's much too large on the inside to fit in the narrow lot it looks to occupy from the outside—too tall, too wide, and about five times too deep.

By the door, neat bundles of books are stacked in seven rows. An older man sits by the cash register, engrossed in a book, occasionally twirling a wand between his fingers.

Horbid picks up a bundle from the first row and turns to Horry, "Ye kin look around if ye like. Might want te hurry a bit, though. Want ye to get _some_ sleep afore tomorrow."

Horry paces down an aisle, running a hand along the book-backs. Some of the books have the same strange script from the Chogbort's library, and all of them have a small square with an odd pattern near the base—like a sequence of nested squares, winding inwards, with alternating greys and blacks. 

_Magickal Realism in the Early 20_ _th_ _Century_

 _A Brief History of Rhyme, Arithmantical Linguistics in Early Spells_

 _Where the Wildebovine Are – Collected Works in Fantasy and Moggley Fiction_

 _Towards an Understanding of Moggley Science Through The Lens of Critickal Magicka_

 _Marlin's Sword_

 _Marlin's Sword Two_

 _Marlin's Sword Revengeance_

 _Gold and Silver, Markets and Failure_

 _Fantastickal Munchkins and Where to Find Them_

 _Spellcraft—Sampling and Search in the Chogbort's Library_

The bookstore, much like Chogbort's, doesn't appear to have _any_ sort of organization scheme for the books. Nonetheless, Horry is completely transfixed. He slides out the last tome—by an S. Aaronov—and opens it. To his dismay, it is packed with tight, incomprehensible, mathemagickal script.

"Horbid, what are these, uh, bar-code looking things? On the spine?"

"Ah, that's how ye find em in the Chogbort's library. Or jus' read em' that way. Look:"

Horbid lifts a book of waterfowl cooking recipes and points his wand at the spine, " _Machinus occulari,"_ he says, and the square seal glows faintly. Then, glowing letters arrange themselves in the air above the book.

"So long as ye have the seal thar, ye can read tha book! Although the seals are, eh, complicated..." Horbid drags his wand across the seal and taps his palm. The seal appears on his skin—brighter than a tattoo. "Great recipes in this'n. I figure'd ye'd be more ol' fashioned—would want tha, uh, actual books, right?" Horbid pats the bundle of books in his arm.

"I thought you said all the books in Chogbort's have always been?"

"Well yeh, so 'ave all the books ye'd ever write! Jus' gotta find em in the library. Though I 'spect findin' em in the library is harder than writin' em in the first place. Easier to jus' write the book, summon the seal, and find it that way,"

 __Horry's finger catches on a hard metal lock on a book as he paces down an aisle, and he pauses. The book is nearly featureless, except for a short note on the back, and a slightly different square seal on the spine—most of the squares are missing, but the black and grey bars are still there. The lock prevents him from opening it, or even peeking into the pages. He takes it off the shelf, and turns it over in his hands.

"Ah yeh, thars a spellbook. It's bound though—can only guarantee that it's the book it says it is, but not where it 'tis in tha library. To pra'vent counterfeit'n and whatnot,"

"What does it do?"

"It's a mystery spell! Told ya it's a whole buncha nonsense, the whole market is," Horbid shakes his head. "Prolly turns yur tomatoes blue or somesuch. Folks bundle 'em together and barter em' for favors or other spells—sometimes even coin, though s'not like coin'll buy ye much outside the moggley world. More 'valuable' the spell, more likely 'tis to be secret like this'n," Horbid air-quotes the word 'valuable' derisively, "Once the secret gets out, anybody can cast it—sometimes that means it becomes more valuable, sometimes less—depends on 'ow useful the spell is. Or 'ow absolutely _mad_ people are."

Horry nods. He had wondered how anything had a price in a world where it seemed food and housing and medical care were all completely free and, well, magickally plentiful.

"There's always a ladder, 'Orry," Horbid frowns, "Even in great ol' Magickal Britain."

"C'mon, 'Orry, I'll show ye."


	9. Chapter 9

Ch. 9

 _Why Britain? Where else? The America's? When they were entrusted with the library, the planet was nearly lost. They see not in it history or knowledge or something sacred, but opportunity. It's a funny word, 'opportunity'. 'Land of opportunity'. 'When opportunity knocks'. Ironic, then, that 'opportunistic' has that faint tinge of negativity. America has stained itself with opportunity. How could we trust them not to seize it again, given the chance?_

 _Excerpt from un[classified] memorandum from MI[classified], 19[classified]._

"Marlin's arse, 'Orry!"

They stand in front of an incomprehensible, ludicrously tall scroll of numbers, supported by chains on each side. Glyphs corresponding to—according to Horbid—spells and transaction participants glow faintly on each line, followed by several columns of—to quote Horbid—"wekkancraft"—and a final number that more or less directly correlates with "value".

Horbid's currently transfixed by one particular entry, which ends with a fifteen digit number.

"'Orry—you're—you're rich!"

"Oh? Oh. Neat. What does that, uh, mean exactly?" It's not that Horry isn't surprised—but exhaustion clouds his thoughts, and, to be honest, material wealth never was much of a concern for a boy who lived contented with his books in a box under the stairs.

"Well, ye could, if ya…if ye wanted to buy, ye could….anything!" Horbid stumbles over the words.

"It seems like everything I want in this crazy world is already free. Should I, um, exchange them? Er, what are they, exactly?"

Horbid taps some of the glyphs with his wand, and more bright, floating words appear.

"Well, one's a spell yer mum found a while back, makes a tea in a tea cup warm, and the cup itself cold…that one's worth the most. An' yur dad 'ad some, eh, defensive spells? Looks like a couple from a series o' puzzle books—'e musta cracked 'em in school. One slows objects near ye if they're goin' too fast. The other…huh. Also slows objects near ye. But uh, only in front o' ye? Ah well. Not worth as much."

"That seems useful?"

"Nah, kin make things go fast enough with magick that it ain't much use to try stoppin' em. Better to dodge,"

"Hm," says Horry. He catches himself blinking slowly—distracted.

"I still, like, know the spell—if I sell it, that is…right?"

"Well, most o' the time, yeh. Certainly for these. If only a few people know the spell, ye can arrange a conditional memory scrubbin'. But these spells are all about showin' off ye own somethin' 'Orry Patter once 'ad," Horbid whistles again, as he reads over the prices.

"I think I'll, uh, hold on to them. Until I have a better idea of how this place works…" Horry trails off.

"Right, o' course, 'Orry. O' course. But, jus'—wow!" Horbid gawks at the scroll.

Horry jams his hands deeper under his armpits, and looks around the square. The constant rotating has gotten better in some ways, and worse in others—no longer nausea inducing, but increasing _unsettling_. Nonetheless, weariness wars with dizziness for the privilege of being the most unpleasant thing assaulting Horry's mind.

Horbid transfers some of the glyphs onto a scrap of paper, and slides it into Horry's spellbooks. He shakes his head, laughs again, and turns to Horry, "Come on, student store's this way."

They take a series of lefts that _definitely_ should mean they went in a circle— _more than once_ —but each turn greets them with an entirely new alley, with storefronts of positively Suessian variety. Only a small fraction of the stores have signs in English—most are in Asian scripts, or vigorously accented English letters—or, apparently, non-Human altogether.

A pair of short, thin-limbed creatures brush past Horry and Horbid, clicking at each other in staccato bursts of hard consonants. Each has a locked spellbook on their backs, and rings and shiny chain looping around their arms up to the tips of their ears. They pause, and turn to stare back at Horry. Horry turns his head, embarrassed, but he can feel their eyes on him as they make their way down the street. Their eyes shine like a night-time predator—curious, but unmistakably hungry.

"Nilbugs look scarier 'en they are. Mostly care about tradin' spells," Horbid says, unprompted. Horry feels their eyes on him well after they round a corner, out of sight.

The student store is fairly obvious. If the bright, pulsating "CHOGBORT'S" hadn't tipped him off, it might've been the continuous streams of Chogbort's-school-colors confetti gushing out of four hoses, completely flooding the street. The confetti is weightless, and seems to respond to air currents, but dissolves into sparkling dust if Horry touches it directly. He notes a fifth hose that occasionally chokes out a sad, grey-colored strip of confetti that immediately sinks to the ground.

Two older kids exit out the front, smiling at each other, waving away the confetti with their hands—and Horry can't help but feel a sudden, overwhelming sadness. Like, as if it wasn't enough that this world was full of magickal, free things, with fantastical creatures and mind-bending spells and majestic, albeit somewhat terrifying castles—people are _happy_ here too. For the first time, all at once, it strikes Horry that he's actually been missing something. His entire life.

The kids—a boy and a girl—pass by Horry and Horbid, not even noticing, as they giggle down the street. Again, Horry catches himself staring after them, and scurries to catch up with Horbid into the store.

"'Ello 'ello 'ello 'Orbid, how's the drudge?" The young man waves at Horbid, but doesn't take his eyes off a floating screen in front of him. It looks vaguely like the game Horbid had described earlier, but more elephants are flying around the pitch than players. He reaches for a mug of something golden and bubbly.

"Ah y'know, jus' taken me friend Mister Patter 'ere on a walkabout." Horbid grins.

The man's turns to look at Horry, then back at his screen—then he nearly knocks his drink over as he turns back, "Oi! … Oi!" he says, pointing at Horry.

"Ah, hi?"

"You saved me mum! You saved Britain!" the young man starts to climb over the table.

"C'mon now, calm it down," Horbid forms a welcome human shield for Horry.

"Oi, Mister Patter, take anythin' ye need. I mean—I mean, most of it's free anyway o' course hah but if ye need—actch'ally," he rummages under the desk, "I'd be downright honored if ya took this spell from me Mister Patter, downright honored! Least I can do!"

Horbid takes the book from the man and hands it to Horry.

"This 'ere is Wilcox Grant, delightful chump and fine purveyor of general goods." Wilcox nods.

Horry half-smiles at the man, "Hello, um, I'm Horry."

"Hah, o' course ya are. Please, please, look around!"

Horry holds the book tight against his chest like a shield, and looks around the store. Quills, pens, notebooks, spirals, tomes, robes, metal gadgets, colorful tubes, vials, lenses, shoes, cauldrons?—it's a quixotic collection of equal parts everyday thing and magickal menagerie.

Occasionally, Horry picks up something in his hand, trying on the thought of owning it—imagining it being a thing he might have in a corner or in a bag. But each time, he sets it back down, and continues on.

He passes rows upon rows of snacks in a rainbow of busy packaging—cartoon characters dance and pantomime noiselessly on the wrappers, beckoning him to touch them—he lifts one, and its void is immediately replaced by another. _Mystery flavors from Sugarplum to Potato stew._ The candy slips from his hand as he continues down the aisle.

He passes a display of four robes, each animated to float as if worn by invisible mannequins, and he touches the cloth. It's soft and warm and intrusively pushes the abstract thought of 'home' into his mind—'enchanted', it says on a tag—'Never get homesick'.

Tears drip down his face, onto his collar—onto the winter clothes that aren't his but somehow are his and came from nowhere. Onto the floor of a store of free treasures, run by a man that he saved by doing nothing. Horbid comes up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Ah hell, I'm sorry lad. I think I overwhelm'd ye."

"I haven't—I don't—I don't—I'm," Horry can't find any words.

"C'mon, we kin do this tomorrow," Horbid leads him back out of the store, waving off Wilcox. They pass through the arcs of the dancing, sparkling confetti.

Horry searches his mind for an anchor—some tangible _thing_ that he can moor his emotions to, some _fixture_ , but it's like waving a hand through smoke. He cries, uncontrollably, into Horbid's massive coat as the confetti bursts into warm little balls of light around him.

A sharp crack heralds a small cluster of men directly in front of Horry and Horbid. They look around, spot Horry, and all turn to face him. All but one on the far right are masked, and the unmasked fellow has a brilliantly blue, glowing right eye—sclera and all. They spread out, ten paces from Horry. Horbid's wand is already in his hand.

"Sorry fellas. Mister Patter 'ere's 'ad a long day." He takes a step back, shielding Horry with his arm. "I'm sure 'e'd give ye autographs another time, if ye ask nice," Horbid says, humorless, raising his wand.

"You will not threaten or harm the boy," says the man with the brilliant blue eye.

All the other men nod and advance. Horbid flicks his wand but nothing happens. He tries again, to no effect. The blue-eye'd man's wand flickers—it only moves when Horbid's moves. It matches the motions—the same, but mirrored?

"Ah, shite," says Horbid, backing up a step.


	10. Chapter 10 & Author's Notes

Ch. 10

 _Always bring a gun to a wandfight._

 _-Ancient Wand Katta_

Horbid's wand blurs into an _enormous_ handgun, and he immediately fires. Three of the men drop in turn after baritone blasts. A fourth is knocked backwards, through a window, but the fifth and sixth manage to cast strange light-bending bubbles that deflect the bullets around them. Blue-eye walks forward, casually, as the bullets obliterate brickwork inches from his head.

Horbid tosses a sphere to the ground that erupts into a tidal wave of foam. He turns to Horry, "Run."

Horry's legs spring into movement without much input on Horry's part—a surge of adrenaline buffets him forward. That small, introspective part of himself capable of dispassionate, rational analysis is a blur of white noise—tuned to a dead television channel.

As they sprint down the alley, Horry shouts, "Why can't we teleport?"

"That's tha first thing I tried,"

"Or call for help?"

"Tha second."

"Or…or…"

"'E's cancellin' me spells. Still is, actually,"

Horry turns, and sees Horbid's left hand continues to flick up, down, and around with a wand.

It's all a familiar fear—like Horry's floating in a vacuum, and however much he might flail, he won't move any further from the certainty of future, overwhelming, inescapable pain.

"Who—who are they!"

"Bad news," says Horbid as he tosses another foam-sphere.

A hole melts in the foam wall behind them, and the first mask to walk through it takes a bullet to the torso. The second rolls and sends a silent lightning bolt at Horbid. Horbid catches it in his hand, gritting his teeth.

"'Urry, this alley!"

For the past three turns, no one else has been on the streets—the shopfronts look more aged—dust and trash accumulates in doorways and bins. Even the lights are dimmer, or off completely. Horry nonetheless has that increasing familiar, overwhelming sense that he's being watched.

Blue-eyes turns the corner in front of them and raises his wand. Horbid tosses a third sphere at him, but right as it hits the ground, the man jerks at it, and the ball—and a good bit of concrete around it—disappears with a crack.

Horbid grabs Horry by the collar and bodily slams his way through a door. Alarm spells scream in Horry's ear for a half second before they cut off. A masked fellow _cracks_ into the space by the backdoor, but takes a bullet to the back before he can turn around. Not even pausing, Horbid _throws_ Horry through the door, and swipes a pile of sticks off a counter.

"Where did—where did everyone go?" Horry looks around frantically for _someone_ , for _help_.

"'E's corralin' us. The Alley's bigger'n it looks. Mostly abandoned…" Horbid trails off, as he sorts though the sticks in his hand—shaking his head, and tossing them onto the ground one by one.

"I think that's all o' them 'cept the Blue feller," Horbid says, just as a masked man covered in broken glass crashes into Horbid. Horbid—with frankly unbelievable agility for his size—rolls with the tackle, and in one fluid motion, stands, and throws the man through another shopfront window. Alarms chirp for a half second again and cut out.

"'Ere, grab me hand." Horbid cracks the stick, and Horry feels an intense gust of wind as the world whirlpools around him. His head spins, and he dry heaves again, falling to his knees. Wind, and a light rain buffets them both.

"Blast, still?!" Horbid gasps. His wand flickers in the air, doing little more than make a soft cutting sound with each swipe.

Horry looks around—they've teleported to a roof. It still has the characteristic style of Longitudinal Alley, if a bit less seedy than the streets below.

Suddenly, everything feels a hundred times heavier, and Horry collapses to the ground. Horbid falls to one knee and groans. Yelling, he grabs Horry by the scruff of the jacket, and leaps off to the next roof. The overwhelming heaviness cuts off midjump, and Horbid cracks another stick right as they touch the ground.

The world doesn't stop spinning when the swirling teleportation ends, this time. The lights are brighter, and there are voices on the streets below, but Horry's will to continue has broken. Light raindrops tickle Horry's face—little pinpricks of cold. Such a strange sensation—such a strange thing to focus on at such a terrifying time.

"C'mon Horry, we're almost te some 'elp," Horbid groans to his feet again, but the immense weight crashes down upon them again, and Horbid's flattened, too.

 _Where did my books go?_ Horry wonders. He's distracted—blinking.

A dark silhouette punctuated with a glowing blue point rises up the edge of the far balcony. It glides towards Horry, and the silhouette gradually gives shape to the man—worn robes, black shoes—scarred forearms.

The man approaches Horry, and he can see the finer features of his face—the stubble on his cheeks, the light scarring around his neck—even the profound scar running vertically through the blue eye, cheekbone to eyebrow. Most of prominent of all, though—completely seizing Horry's attention—he can see the cactus-shaped scar on his forehead, just barely obscured by the man's dark hair.

" _Moderatus non_ _hadamardus projectus_." Says Blue-eye, pointing his wand at Horry.

"Sorry…'Orry," Horbid says, as he tilts the gun towards Horry and fires.

Author's Notes, Chs. 1-10

Thanks for (still) reading! Updates seem to be happening on Tuesdays and Saturdays. This should happen without too much difficulty until Ch. 30ish. I've been Nanowrimo-ing this, so I'm building up a bit of a backlog of chapters to post, but I don't think that production rate is sustainable through the holidays. The good news is that this will keep me afloat through the holidays, but come January I'll be interning, and may have considerably less time to spend on this project.

That said, this is planned roughly through to the end.

Some various thoughts on what is already written:

Ch. 1-3: Really, I was trying to establish that this is _not_ _anything like J. 's Harry Potter world at all_. I seem to have been successful. We'll see more, larger departures later.

Ch. 4: All this [classified] business is based on Zero Knowledge Proofs—a neat idea for how you can prove mathematical statements to people without revealing any of the details of the proof. Much of the economy of magickal Britain (as well as the causal-consistency-enforcement of the library books later) is based upon this.

Ch. 5: Rot13 for a supremely unhelpful hint (not even really a spoiler, but may tip people off on something): Puncgre svir unf n frperg

Ch. 6: This chapter should be a strong hint that this story is going to be meta as hell. Also no I don't know latin don't make fun of me google translate is your friend.

Ch. 7: The wand's ruminations about what is or is not a book and what is or is not a spell are a hint that, whatever magick is doing, it's somehow solving the Symbol Grounding Problem. Of course, a 'sufficiently advanced classifier' could do this too, but you know what they say about sufficiently advanced things.

Ch. 8: The nested squares thing Horry's describing on the books is a way of encoding an infinitely long quaternary sequence in a square (because magick lest you have infinitely small things). I really should just post a picture of what I mean. I needed a way to encode an arbitrary real number as the book's 'index' (i.e., its index in the Chogbort's Library), but also the freedom to define other auxiliary real numbers related to the index. This is a simplish way of doing that. H/t to Scott A. for pointing out such a n indexing system for a real physical collection of uncountably many objects requires the Axiom of Choice. (More specifically, you need a well-ordering of the Real Numbers (library indices are in the open interval (0,1)).

Re: 'Longitudin Alley', I did not realize Diagon Alley was a pun on Diagonally until I was into my twenties. Also, if you don't believe Horbid writes self-help books in his spare time, then I don't know what to tell you.

Ch. 9's spellchain is my attempt to make a 'real' commodities market for magical Britain, in the form of a crypto-currency that acts both as a currency and as a commodity. If someone wants to implement Spellcoin, feel free—I suspect it wouldn't be too hard if you trained an RNN on harry potter spells, and used the ID of individually mined coins as some part of the randomness token for the generated text. The problem is that spells aren't exactly uh _divisible_ , and you'd need some way of standardizing what generator to use for the actual spell-identities. This could be baked into the spell-mining software, of course, but it would be nice to be able to update it over time as generative text networks get better and better.

Ch. 10: Of course there's going to be time travel too.


	11. Chapter 11

Ch. 11

 _If the merchants are to be believed, Marlin had thirty toes, six arms, and between 3 and 13 eyes—always a prime number. A finger of Marlin is sometimes a chocolatey treat, other times, a powerful, forbidden relic whose purpose they could not possibly begin to explain to you. That they have forty such fingers in their possession, and that their competitor has another forty just around the corner does not bother them—Marlin had infinitely many fingers, you see._

 _-Excerpt from Tales from the Silk Road_

A tremendous boom shatters all of the nearby windows. Horry's eyes are closed, but he's feeling—decidedly not shot? He opens his eyes to see Alvin, kneeling next to him, ringed by shattered roof tiles and faintly warped space.

Alvin's left hand touches the wand jutting from Horry's pocket. In his right, between index finger and thumb, he pinches a bullet, holding it in the air—from Horbid's gun?

"That was reckless, Ronaldus," says Alvin.

"Aye," Horbid sighs, face down.

Blue-eye pauses—the first hint of an emotion crosses his face—not concern, or even surprise—curiosity maybe?

"May I borrow your wand, Horry?" says Alvin, eyes not leaving the scarred man.

"Oh—y-yes sir," say Horry—heartbeat pounding in his ears, paralyzed by fear.

Blue-eye cocks his head to the side, and raises his wand in a lazy fighting stance. Alvin runs one finger along the length of the wand, pausing in the middle to twist it, and it—breaks? Or rather, it swings, as if it's hinged? Then, he swings the newly-jointed wand around until it's perfectly balanced, point upwards, in the center of his palm.

The men stare at each other for a beat, motionless—Blue-eye in his almost pedestrian fighting stance, Alvin perfectly still with the wand balanced on his palm.

Blue-eye scowls, then a snarl creeps along his mouth—he screams a primal, guttural scream, slashes the air with his wand, and disappears in a crack. Dust and loose paper swirl in the void left by the man.

"Hm," says Alvin, as Horry passes out.

Horry awakens—once again—to strangely calming light and intrusive thoughts of well-being. He sits up, and he's back in the infirmary, with heavy canvas partitions surrounding his bed. Muffled, just out of earshot, he hears the unmistakable sharp, unkind clips of an argument in progress—too distant for the words to take a shape beyond a general edge of _fury_.

A bowl of fruits, a muffin, and a glass of orange juice sit by the bed by a pile of books—probably the same bundle Horbid had before? The previous evening suddenly rushes back into Horry's mind and he becomes overwhelmingly dizzy, falling back into the bed. Right. He had been attacked. Again. It feels unreal. Precisely as unreal as everything else about this strange place, like the memory had a _false_ quality to it. There weren't _really_ magickal spells and strange pointy creatures and alleys that broke all the laws of space, were there?

Horry tries a piece of fruit, and, determining it to be _absolutely delicious,_ crams the rest of the food into his mouth, as if it might disappear at any moment. Madame Pampelmousses parts the canvas with a curt swipe, and enters, just as Horry's mouth reaches full muffin capacity.

"Good morning Mister Patter. How are you feeling?" she asks, making a great effort to sound warm, but the scowl on her brow betrays her. Horry can tell the scowl isn't _really_ directed at him, but it's no less intimidating.

"Mrrgmn," says Horry.

"Excellent," she says, holding up a hand-lens and a wand, "I'm performing some diagnostics. Despite the… _events_ …of the previous evening, you seem to be in excellent, if a bit malnourished, health." She waves the wand around in the air, muttering to herself. Horry swallows the huge fruit-muffin-juice glob.

"Did you know your arm was fractured?" she says, suddenly.

"Ah, um, yes that makes sense. Maybe six months ago? I should be better now…" Horry trails off.

"It was not set correctly. Would you like me to fix it?" she continues in a slow circuit around the bed, muttering and waving her arm.

"I, oh, yes. Wait, um, will it hurt?"

She pauses and lowers the wand, her mouth forming a thin line, "No Mister Patter, it will not hurt. Would you like me to do it now?"

Horry looks at his arm, and his mind stutters. "Y-yes," he says, after a long pause.

She flits the wand up and down, mutters something under her breath, and the arm is awash in alternating cold and warmth.

"What—who were those people?"

"People that would tear down all of creation but to see a prophecy come to pass," Alvin dips his head into the enclosure. Madame Pampelmousses shoots him a death-glare.

"Alvin, I—,"

"Pamela, I _know_. Please." They have a glaring match for a second or six. It's not much of a match—Madam Pampelmousses' glare seems to have been hardened on the edge of a thousand injustices. Alvin just looks tired. She sighs, and walks towards the flap.

"Don't." she says, turning to him, wand pointed directly at his gut, and leaves the enclosure.

Alvin collapses into a seat next to Horry with an enormous sigh.

"I apologize Horry. It may be a hollow promise, but I still believe Chogbort's Castle to be the safest place for you. But I understand if you want to leave, considering I have not been able to keep you safe for even one day."

Horry looks down at the bed, and turns the trauma of the previous day around in his mind like a ball of putty. Fear—pain—loss—homesickness even—they all register as emotions he _should_ be feeling, but they're either all stuck trying to come through the same door, or he's too tired to feel much of anything at all. Instead of responding directly, Horry deflects:

"What…happened?"

"A group of fanatics wanted to do something to you. They may have succeeded, but it is quite difficult to tell, considering the circumstances. I hope you will forgive me, but I performed several powerful ward spells on you before you awoke and we spoke that first time. The spells were meant to alert me immediately should you come under any harm, or even threat of harm. It's encouraging, then, that whatever the fellow cast upon you did not trip these wards. It's more concerning that we do not know _what_ he cast."

"The man with the blue eye."

"Indeed," Alvin looks into the middle distance, eyes unfocused.

"What..was that? Some kind of spell?"

Alvin pauses and frowns. After a few moments, he draws back his sleeve and touches his left eye. It's slow—like a cloud drifting by to reveal the sun—but in moments, it _burns_ with a familiar, brilliant blue glow. Horry feels a tickle of fear, but it's pressed down and away, as the color fades and Alvin's normal eye returns.

"It was an Eye of Marlin. As you can see, I have the left. That man apparently has the right. This is concerning not only because I destroyed the right Eye many years ago, but because of what the Eye tends to do to its user. It is not that it is _cursed_ per se, simply that it offers something of a, hm, _dangerous_ perspective."

Horry flexes his hand under the sheets, "You're being..um, very vague."

Alvin smiles, "Hm, yes. Well, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. Much has been written about the Eyes, and very little of what has been written has come from users. It is enshrined in legend as an artifact that allows the user to see the Future. This is not quite the truth, but it can certainly seem that way when up against it. If this _were_ the truth, then, as you have been keen to point out in your conversations with Horbid, its existence would beget all manner of paradox."

"You were…listening?"

"Hah, no my boy, I simply spoke with Horbid. You seem to have something of a fascination with destiny," Alvin winks. His smiles doesn't reach his eyes. He looks down at his hands.

"To be as clear as I can, the Right Eye reveals probable futures, and the Left Eye reveals probable pasts. Stare into either abyss for too long, and, well…" Alvin trails off.

"That's how he was cancelling Horbid's spells?"

"Ah, yes. Terribly difficult to do in practice. But it was more than that, I think. It's one thing to be able to predict what someone will cast—it's another to be familiar enough with the spell to counter-cast it. He knew every spell Horbid knew, and likely most spells I knew, too, given his confidence." Alvin frowns again.

"The scar…" says Horry, hand flexing.

"Indeed Horry. It was you—an _older_ you, but, unmistakably, you."


	12. Chapter 12

Ch. 12

 _The first self-consistent magickal time loop was used to prove that white always has a winning move in chess. The second self-consistent magickal time loop was used for an adulterous tryst. The third self-consistent magickal time loop revealed the first two self-consistent time loops to be the result of an earlier self-consistent time loop._

 _-Chronomancy Demystified, Remystified_ by Jurgen Park

"Why is an older me trying to kill me? Why—how isn't that a paradox? What—" Horry cuts off and squeezes his hands together under the sheets.

"A young boy was prophesied to defeat a Dark King. The wording of such prophecies are ambiguous, and often so vague as to be useless—in fact, all we know about magick _requires_ them to be nearly useless."

"You can't tell it to me, can you?"

Alvin sighs and fusses with the stitching at his sleeve. "Worse, Horry. I do not know it anymore, because I was the one who made it secret. I only know its general shape, and my best impression of that shape I have given to you: that you were prophesied to defeat a Dark King. One can tease out more of a shape by measuring how a prophecy interacts with other forbidden prophecies—there's an art to it—but yours, or perhaps, my sealing of it, has been stubbornly strong. Most alarming, I think, is that I bound the prophecy to become readable once it has come to pass, just as you saw with the text of your story in the Library. Yours, it seems, hasn't yet."

Horry pauses and digests the existence of a blurry, unknowable prophecy.

"But everyone thinks I defeated … him…"

"Because you _did_ Horry. That is what is so perplexing, and maddening about prophecy. At times, I feel they are the cruelest joke of Magick, because they rarely clarify, and so often are self-fulfilling in what they drive people to do—how they drive people to _respond_. That is why I am being so careful, Horry. Because if I had _any_ guess, the _you_ that you saw last night looked like someone driven to the point of fracture, and the only other times I have seen such…persistence, prophecy has been driver of that ruin."

"So you can't tell me anything…" Horry trails off.

Alvin sighs again. "I can reiterate, as empty as it may seem, that there are two places in the world where you are truly safe. Your home with the Durblys and here at Chogbort's. I can tell you that Voltabort was defeated a very long time ago, by the combined sacrifice of your parents and yourself. He has adherents—adherents that wear the mask you saw last night, and he may always have adherents, and they may always hunt you, but they cannot reach you here, because I am the second most powerful warizard in history, and they are not so bold as to test me."

"My parents," Horry says—just the words, hardly any inflection.

The old warizard takes a deep breath and frowns. He looks out the window behind Horry and thinks.

"I can make excuses, Horry. I'm ever so good at it, having lived as long as I have. I've made enough mistakes, failed enough friends, caused enough tragedies that they come to mind immediately—not because I seek an excuse, but because of my familiarity with destruction. I failed you Horry, personally. I failed you, and I may never atone. The night your parents died is my greatest such failure. I will never forgive myself for allowing you to be trapped in that prison with your Uncle. These are not things I can change, because what has happened is written. I can only offer you the future," he continues to look out the window.

The non-pain that he feels with the mentioning of his parents blossoms into something else—a different sort of hurt, a cracked kind of emptiness. Horry tries to push it away, but it's stubborn—like pushing on sand—like trying to shape water. It hurts, and it doesn't go away. Again, he deflects:

"Could…you be the Dark King?"

Alvin smiles a grim smile, and looks back down at Horry, "I have considered the thought more than once. I certainly have the power—the knowledge, the fortitude, the ruthlessness," the smile disappears, "but I do not have one particular quality crucial to royalty: I do not Want. I would sooner destroy all of Marlin's artifacts—tear down the entire edifice of Magick itself, than submit one single being to my will. I teach, Horry, and I defend. The day I break that oath, you have my permission to strike me down."

"Voltabort-he-who-must-be-named—" Horry coughs, "—what did he want?"

"He wanted to reshape the world—a noble idea, but terribly dangerous in practice. He wanted to free magick from the shackles of fate. So he gathered artifacts that he thought would allow him to do this. When he could not get those artifacts he stole them. When he could not steal them, he killed for them. When he could not kill for them, he subverted, sabotaged, destroyed. He was ruthless because he believed in the purity of his goal—that this universe was worth losing if it meant another could be free to write its own story. But alas, every story is already written, so how could he possibly succeed? It was a riddle that drove him mad."

"Did one of those artifacts, um, allow for time-travel?"

"Ah, time travel is easy, Horry. Changing what has already happened—now _that_ is the tricky part,"

"So it's not impossible?"

"I know of one way to do it, which is currently impossible. But of course, what is 'current' is a matter of perspective if such changes could be made, now isn't it?

"H-how do you do it?" Horry says, suddenly.

"I would not be a mysterious old warizard if I gave up all of my secrets, Horry. But I assure you, some day, I will tell you."

Alvin stands, takes a wand from his robes, and hands it back to Horry, "Thank you for letting me borrow this," he winks, "but I'm afraid I must return to the festivities of the day—students will be arriving shortly."

Horry's stomach sinks, "Oh, right…"

"I understand if you want to forego the day's activities—you've suffered enough trauma that I think Madame Pampelmousses would throttle me if I asked anything of you. So consider it an offer. You are a full student of Chogbort's, and are free to hole up and read a book in the infirmary for as long as you wish, or you are free to leave and join other first year students in orientation. I would only become concerned if you decided you never wanted to leave the infirmary—or perhaps if you got lost down the hall there," he nods in the direction of the infinite row of beds, "But please, take as long as you need."

Without hesitation, "I'll go. Orientation, I mean. I think…I don't think I want to be here…alone."

Alvin smiles and his eyes brighten, "Excellent, I'll fetch Horbid. He can lead you towards the first event. And if at any time, for any reason, you are uncomfortable here, let any of the faculty know. They are familiar with your circumstances, and understand that this is your home, now."

"I'm already uncomfortable here, but, um, I think that's okay. It's a new thing, right? A whole new world? Would be kind of crazy to be comfortable…" Horry trails off again.

"Hmm, would you like to be obscured?"

"What?"

"Oh, I mean I can make you appear different, if you don't want to draw attention to yourself. As you saw in the Alley, your scar is something of a magnet."

"Oh, um, yes—but just the scar though. People don't know what I look like, right?"

"Oh, they absolutely do, but it shouldn't be a problem, I think," Alvin smiles.


	13. Chapter 13

Ch. 13

… _Always._

Drury clouds partially obscure the train as it approaches. Occasional squeaks and mechanical thumps echo down the valley, but they don't sound like any train Horry has ever heard before. Not that he's really been on that many trains. Or any trains, for that matter.

Thousands of individual interlocking mechanical pieces oscillate forwards and back, side to side, as if the train is powered by an enormous clockwork centipede. Furious plumes of smoke pour out from uneven smokestacks, some grey, some white, some deep red. Rather than inspire the intended awe, Horry watches the thing and feels that empty, _wrong_ fear. Even the train-tracks are _wrong_ —bent, uneven, flying into place just before the train reaches them, and tumbling out into the air and into a compartment in the back in great arcs as it passes.

The whole contraption drips with embellishment. Does a school that teaches its students how to teleport really need a magickal train that lays its own tracks and siphons them back up as it moves? Even if a reason could be contrived, why all the different colors of smoke? Are magickal engines powered by _steam_? Rather than stare at the train and become more and more discomfited in time, Horry turns to look at the lake. Regular looking birds flap around near the far shore in contrast to the stark oddity of the surroundings. Eldritch horrors probably—well, _definitely_ lurk underneath the surface just yards away.

As the train slows to a stop, and for lack of better things to do, Horry turns his critical eye inwards. Does it really _help_ that this world is Magickal? Every problem Magick solves also seems to introduce more and yet more problems. Right from the start. It couldn't be worse than his life before…but what if it wasn't any better? After all, Horry doesn't entirely know what life is supposed to feel like. Maybe…maybe it _would_ be worse?

Sadness and fear give way to loneliness, as new students trickle out of the impossible train. The students—just dots in the distance—eventually form into rivulets, and the blob flows towards the castle. Isolation might be a way of buffering himself from the cruelties of a world intent on destroying him. Loneliness tickles his core again. Little else has any sort of guarantee.

What if no one likes him? As if anyone would want to talk to a boy that had lived in a box under the stairs for years. These kids had already lived a decade of magickal life. Classwork would be second-nature to them. Horry can't help but imagine the approaching blob growing larger and larger—dark and smothering and all-consuming. It didn't help that he couldn't see any of their faces. Nothing to do but stew in uncertainty. Great.

This is precisely when a book flaps into his face.

Horry very nearly falls off his perch on the castle battlements—a perfectly safe perch, as Horbid had demonstrated when he dove off the side to the ground below—but not so safe that it deactivates those deep, mammalian tendencies to identify apparently falling tens of stories with immediate death.

He picks up the book—it's old, smells like mildew—and checks the spine. No title, and no Chogbortsian label on the binding. He flips to the first page:

FIRST DAY FRIENDS

Then, the next:

ABBY, ALPERT

ABBY, ANJELICA

ABBY, ANNA

ABBY, ARTHUR

ABBY, BARTHUR

ABBY, BREN

…

Every page, in alphabetical order, are names, each with an individually drawn line through them. The lines are hand-drawn, some neat, some scribbled out—at least one looks _burned_. Horry keeps turning the pages.

…

DAISY, WALLUS

DAISY, WUNTHER

DAISY, ZAYID

DARGO, ALPERT

DARGO, ANJELICA

…

The lines with Dargo are all multiply-crossed through with red. Curious. He keeps turning. Then, he loses patience and starts fanning through the book. About midway through, a note nearly falls out, and he catches the page indicated by the note:

…

HERMANY, RAOUL

HERMANY, REGINALD

HERMANY, RINGO

HERMANY, ROMB

HERMANY, RUTHIE

…

'Hermany, Romb' is underlined twice in green. The note reads:

 _I've done the legwork for you, and it's the closest thing to real you're going to get. You'll thank me later. Or not. Cheers. -HP_

"What." says Horry.

DO YOU WANT TO—

Horry _does_ fall off the battlements with his wand's outburst—with a yelp—and begins to float gently to the ground.

"You—you need to give me some warning!"

APOLOGIES MASTER PATTER. DO YOU WANT TO HEAR A STORY ABOUT TIME?

"Well, I'm going to be falling for a few minutes so I don't see why not."

EXCELLENT. MY STORY IS CALLED 'COBY, THE FIRST TIME TRAVELER'. IT IS ABOUT THE FIRST WARIZARD WHO DISCOVERED TIME TRAVEL, NAMED COBY.

"That—yes, okay."

HERE IS HOW IT GOES: THERE WAS ONCE A WARIZARD NAMED COBY AND HE WAS TERRIBLY CLEVER. HE REALIZED THAT, IF ONE COULD TRAVEL THROUGH TIME, ONE COULD SOLVE COMPLICATED PROBLEMS VERY QUICKLY. SO COBY GOES BACK IN TIME AND KILLS HIS GRANDFATHER, THE END.

"Wait—that's, _what_?"

OH I'M SORRY I THOUGHT YOU WERE BORED.

"No, I'm—! Look, just tell me the story."

VERY WELL. COBY DOES NOT GO BACK IN TIME TO KILL HIS GRANDFATHER, HE _TRIES_ TO GO BACK IN TIME TO _COMMUNICATE_ WITH HIS GRANDFATHER BUT FINDS THAT HE IS UNABLE TO.

Wind buffets Horry on his fall, but he's not falling much more than a foot or so per second. Horry sighs.

"Why is he unable to?"

BECAUSE THAT WOULD NOT SATISFY THE DEUSTCH CRITERIA.

Horry pinches the bridge of his nose, " _What is the Deustsch criteria_?"

A BETTER QUESTION WOULD BE, 'WHAT DID HE DO WHEN HE WAS BACK IN TIME, IF HE FOUND HE COULDN'T COMMUNICATE WITH HIS GRANDFATHER?'

"Yes, okay, that one."

VERY LITTLE. HE TRIPPED OVER AND BRAINED HIMSELF ON A ROCK. HE WOKE UP IN A HOSPITAL THREE WEEKS AFTER THE POINT WHEN HE'D ORIGINALLY TRAVELED BACK IN TIME, SIXTY YEARS LATER.

"That's awful!"

INDEED.

"Wait, so time, like, _intervened_ ¸ and prevented him from changing the past?"

NO, THAT WOULD BE THE ROCK.

"You know what I mean!"

MANY WARIZARDS THOUGHT SO. THEY AWAITED HIS RETURN FOR WEEKS UNTIL HE WOKE UP THREE WEEKS AFTER HIS FIRST EXPERIMENT. AFTER ALL, IF ALL WENT ACCORDING TO PLAN, HE SHOULD'VE BEEN RIGHT BACK, THE MOMENT AFTER HE LEFT. FOR A TIME, CHRONOMANCY WAS ABANDONED, BECAUSE IT WAS DEEMED TOO DANGEROUS. BUT THEN A WARIZARD NAMED DEUSTCH PROVED EVERYONE WRONG.

Horry passes by a Gargoyle. It stares at him, teeth barred. Horry sighs again.

"How did Deustch prove everyone wrong?"

HE PROVED THAT AS LONG AS ANYTHING YOU DID DURING YOUR TRAVELS WAS CONSISTENT WITH WHAT ALREADY OCCURRED—TIME TRAVEL IS PERFECTLY PERMISSIBLE. IT WAS SIMPLY AN UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT THAT COBY BRAINED HIMSELF ON A ROCK AND WAS THEN IN A COMA FOR SIXTY YEARS.

"That's—Alvin said something similar. That time travel doesn't let you _change_ anything. Except that you can! And you're being just as confusing!"

THE MISTAKE IS TO THINK OF TIME AS A MALEVOLENT FORCE. TIME DOES NOT CARE, MASTER PATTER. NATURE ONLY DEMANDS CONSISTENCY. THE QUESTION, THEN, IS WHAT DOES THAT ALLOW YOU TO DO?

"Well I don't know! I learned about time travel yesterday! I didn't even learn about it actually. I just learned that apparently it exists."

IT IS NOT MEANT TO BE A RIDDLE, MASTER PATTER. ONLY CONTEXT.

"Well thank you for the context," Horry grumbles.

YOU ARE MOST WELCOME.

Horry pauses, "Wait, this is about the book isn't it?—"

"Oi, 'Orry, this way! Saw ye fallin' there," Horbid trudges up through a stretch of tall grass.

"Students are 'ere, this way, this way!"


	14. Chapter 14

Ch. 14

 _Oh but to behold Chogbort's for the first time, just once again. They say it stares back at you, just as you stare at it—that it_ judges _and_ reflects _. Your history is writ on the face of it. And the Gargoyles! Well, as long as it's not breeding season, the gargoyles are a majestic sight, indeed!_

-Diary Excerpt, Jannkus Le'Roy courtesy The Le'Roy Family Trust

Horry stuffs the book in his backpack, and approaches Horbid.

"Horbid I—"

"Sorry abou'—"

They both pause. Horbid laughs, "Woz just gonna say, sorry bout' shootin' ye and all. Woz pretty sure it wouldn't hurt ye,"

"Wait, pretty sure?!"

They begin to wade through the tall grass, on a sideways approach to the blob of students in the distance.

"Me gun ain't _lethal_ mind ye, but it packs a wallop. Shoulda realized Alvin had warded ye earlier n' I did…"

"It's…okay Horbid. Thank you for taking me out to see the Alley. Even if it was kind of a fiasco…"

"A course, 'Orry. Hope we can sort out how to take ye there without any crazy folks tryin' to attack ye. What were ye gonna say?"

"Oh, um, I got hit by a flying book,"

"Wot?" Horbid turns, "Well tha's strange."

"So it's not, like, a first day Chogbort's ritual? To get hit by a flying book that tells you who you should be friends with?"

"'Orry that's the strangest thing I ever heard. You sure yer okay after that fall?"

Horry sighs. They round the back of the train—its clicks and hisses grow louder and louder. The wheels jitter—almost nervous—and a side door opens as they approach. Flaps and pistons wiggle and rotate in a busy mosaic of motion. Smokes _sighs_ out of the machine. Under a hatch, a dark orb that Horry _thought_ was a porthole _blinks_.

"Ahhg, it's alive?!"

"Oh, wot, the train? Yeh, found 'er in a circus in Phuket. Don't worry—perfectly safe," Horbid smiles.

Horry is _increasingly_ unconvinced by Horbid's ability to discriminate between what is and is not safe, but, nonetheless, steps into the hatch.

"Well, aright, just slip through thar, and catch up to the group—no-one should be tha wiser. If ye need anythin'—anythin' at all, jus' find one of us faculty-folks,"

Horry looks around the interior—it's lush and spacious, but not spacious in that space-bending way—just generally well designed. Food carts rest unattended at each door, and the noise of the train is well-obscured by the thick wall padding.

A pillow slowly crawls along a seat in Horry's peripheral vision, but freezes when Horry turns to stares at it.

Horry frowns, but turns to Horbid, "Um, th-thanks again, Horbid. For everything,"

"O' course, 'Orry. Lemme know how your first day goes later—gotta wrangle some beasts in the meantime." Horbid salutes, and wades back into the tall grass.

When Horry turns back, the pillow is gone. He sighs, steels himself, and steps through to the exit on the other side of the train.

Surprisingly, he still isn't the last person off. Stepping off to the other side, he looks down the length of the gently pulsating train and sees the occasional student dragging oversized trunks out of the far carriages. It's as good a clandestine arrival as any. He cinches the straps on his backpack, and trudges onwards.

One pair of such stragglers is immediately ahead of him, one carting a comically small, but apparently ludicrously heavy trunk, and the other, well, _accosting_ him. Horry approaches them, warily.

"Why does it matter that they aren't _upset_ by the injustice? That doesn't mean they aren't being wronged!" she isn't yelling, but she's poised for a fight—book in hand, ferocity in eye.

The boy slides his trunk in uneven bursts of effort. He groans and pauses.

"I'm just sayin', it seems like an awful waste of time to do somethin' that none of em really seem to care about."

"You don't know that!"

"I mean, no, but…"

She whips around towards Horry, "Hey! You! Did you know that Nilbugs can't vote?"

Horry freezes, "Oh, uhm, no—but—,"

"Is it, or is it not a tragedy that a creature that is _just as crucial to the life of Magickal Britain as any other_ and _just as smart if not smarter than a human_ has _no say_ in what happens in the government?"

"To be honest…I didn't know what a Nilbug was until yesterday…"

Her fury softens for a beat, "Oh, you grew up Moggley. Me too! Wait, haven't I seen you before?"

She scrunches up her nose and considers Horry.

"Oh I, um, probably not. I'm, uh—H—Harry," Horry extends a hand.

She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, "That's the worst fake name I've ever heard. You're Horry, aren't you? Horry Patter?"

She seizes his hand and performs a single shake, "I'm Hermany,"

Alarms ring in Horry's brain—it couldn't be—it couldn't possibly—

"He doesn't have the scar!" The boy turns and stares at his forehead, "Couldn't be." The boy sighs, defeated, and sits on his trunk in exhaustion, "I'm Romb. Met this'n," he nods towards Hermany, "on the train."

"I uh…hm."

"Don't worry Horry, if you're trying to be sneaky, we'll _keep your secret_ ," she glares at Romb.

"It isn't him! No cactus!"

"You think it's impossible to make a cactus scar invisible? After growing up in Magickal Britain? As you stand, of all places, on the front garden of _Chogbort's_?"

"I'm just sayin'! Of all the explanations you might have, that Harry here is secretly the defeater of Voltabort-he-who-must-be-named just 'cause you think he looks familiar, and because Horry Patter is rumored to be _somewhere_ in this class, is a _bit_ of a stretch!"

Horry sighs and pokes his forehead—the cactus shimmers into view as he touches it, but re-obscures when he removes his finger.

"Bloody hell!"

Hermany nods, satisfied.

"You're…you're!"

"Romb, he clearly wants to be clandestine. Otherwise he wouldn't have gone to all this trouble!"

"Guys…" Horry trails off. They turn to look at him. Horry heaves a tremendous sigh, "Do you…need help with that trunk?"

" _Yes_." Says Romb, making a face at Hermany.

"Bloody hell," Romb mutters to himself, as they swing the crate forwards.

"Why uh is it so heavy?"

"Cause my brothers are absolute _tossers_."

"It's enchanted to be light, but Romb is pretty sure one of his brothers filled it up with rocks or something."

"You can't see?"

"His brothers also locked it,"

"Your brothers don't sound very nice."

They approach the crowd from behind. Most cluster around a gate with glowing letters counting down—still a few minutes away from whatever awaits. Nearly everyone has self-organized into groups of two or three, occasionally all turning to look at some bizarre newly-noticed feature of the castle. Chogbort's, in turn, _looms_. Its parapets drift slowly by—shifting, rotating just barely slow enough to detect, and the gargoyles, having arranged themselves on the roof, look to be in the throes of some terrifying slow-motion combat.

"What if you cast it twice?" asks Hermany.

"Uhm, maybe that would work. I don't entirely know the spell though…"

"That's such a versatile spell! How could you not have that memorized!"

"There's like a hundred million versatile spells, Hermany!"

"Does the, uh, weightlessness spell? Do you know the limit of it?"

"Barely—I think it makes things a hundred times lighter...I _really_ don't want to know what's in here if that's true. Why?"

"My wand said, well, I guess _implied_ that spells can kind of be stretched if you know what you're doing. Which uh makes sense given what I've tried."

"Wait, what?"

Hermany turns to him, "What do you mean, 'my wand said'?"

Horry takes his wand out of his pocket, "I guess I'm confused why you're confused. Don't you guys have wands?"

"Of course, but you said it talked?"

"Yeah?"

"Horry, wands don't talk."


	15. Chapter 15

Ch. 15

 _The portraiture of Chogbort's had to be taken down for several weeks after an image of the Dark King was discovered in secret nook of the Slyverin common room. Headmaster Doubledoor assured the authorities that the projection was not able to escape, but a good quarter of the portrait-residences still have scars of the attempt, and at least four students were temporarily blinded._

 _Chiarobscuro_ _– Portraits of Magickal Britain_ by Darvid Feidermen

"What do you mean wands don't talk?! My wand's been talking to me for like two days!"

Horry feels his wand buzz in his hand, and it makes him jump.

Romb and Hermany give him strange looks.

"I haven't ever heard of anything like that. Where's its brain supposed to be?"

"Magick can do a lot, Horry, but minds are _complicated_. Are you sure it's…fully conscious? It's not just copying things you're saying or something? It might be hexed…"

Horry squeezes his fists in frustration, "It…no. It's—it's very much alive and apparently knows a tremendous amount about magick and is being _completely silent right now for some reason_."

"Well that's quite strange."

"You got it from the whacky old codger at Olliwander's?"

"No, um, Alvin gave it to me."

Hermany pauses—"Alvin gave you his wand?"

"Well, I mean, I don't know if it's _his_ wand."

Hermany digs her wand out of a pouch in her backpack and holds it aloft next to Horry's.

"They look the same. I guess—it could be?"

Romb takes out his wand—it's different, a bit ruddier, "Looks like both of yours are Master copies. My dad gave me his old one," he smiles proudly.

"Copies?"

"Yeah—lotta wands are copies of old famous wands. Some old Italian warizard made a bunch of wands in the 1700s which got super popular, called 'em Master wands. Both o' yours look like copies. There are some copies of Doubledoor's wand, but it's kinda gauche to wave around the Eldar wand if you aren't, well, Doubledoor."

"So it's not Doubledoor's wand?"

A tremendous bellchime rattles and silences the collection of students. Instead of swinging open, the individual bars of the gate separate and float upwards—bending, twisting. The ground rumbles as a vast moat sinks around the castle, punctuated by a second tremendous bell-chime. Water floods into the moat and crashes into a wave that sends spray far above the heads of the students, but the spray slows—the sharp features of the turbulent water arrest, and it softens into a great blob of water that settles back slowly into the moat. All the while, the gargoyles continue their brutal, glacial fight. As the bulk of the water sinks below ground level, a wide path is revealed, leading to the front door. With a crack, Alvin appears in front of them.

"Welcome," he says.

The students stand by, collectively awed.

"You have all been selected because you each have something in you that is exceptional. I need not remind many of you that the existence of this school is not a constant—education, in the abstract, is not a certainty. Indeed, there are more stories of ruin in the Library housed by my school than you will ever be able to fully understand. It is my hope that your time at this school is but one component of a tilt towards Good—just one small beat in the collection of great stories you all have to tell.

"Right now, Chogbort's probably appears Awesome to you. But the reputation of this castle is nothing other than what its students go out and do. Part of that is what fantastical knots you are able to create with the great fabric of Magick. But more importantly—greater than any Magick you will ever find—are the bonds you will develop over your seven years here.

"So, let us proceed, and see where the first bit of that story takes us,"

He turns, and walks towards the castle. The students wait—unsure if they're supposed to follow—but a blonde-haired boy strides out after him, confident and poised. Soonafter, the others follow—hushed silence dissolving into excited whispers as they filter towards castle.

"So!" Romb elbows Horry, "What house do ya think it'll find you in?"

Shortly after entering the doors, a mass-weightlessness spell had lifted all the luggage into the air. The ridiculous too-small trunk floats ahead of them, only occasionally needing a gentle nudge forwards.

Horry still grips his wand, frowning, but ignores the mystery for the moment—it's decided to be silent, apparently content on letting him stew in confusion. He turns to Romb, "To be honest, I'm kind of sour on this whole 'reveal your future' business. Why can't we just choose?"

"What's to say you aren't?"

"It seems like we explicitly aren't! One of the teachers here told me it looks into your future. There doesn't seem to be any choice there…" Horry trails off.

"I like to think of it as revealing what we would have chosen, if we had a choice. I've never heard of someone being unsatisfied with their placement," Hermany twiddles a lock of hair with a finger, "That's not to say I'm not nervous…"

"Well pretty much my entire family has been in Grippenboors. Can't imagine I end up anywhere else," Romb beams.

Horry makes an effort not to look at the constantly shifting walls and trudges forward, frowning, "Well, if I had to pick, I guess maybe the new house. I don't really know anything about all of this stuff. Might be a good place to get my bearings."

Romb snorts, "What, Jokelsnore's? Horry, _nobody_ wants to be in the new house. It's a stain on the school. Some chump in the Warzengambit bribed his way into making a vanity house. It's—it's a travesty!"

"I dunno! A teacher described all the house to me and none of them really—connected."

"I guess as long as it isn't Slyverin…"

"Okay what is actually wrong with Slyverin? The guy I talked to was from Grippenboor so I don't think it was an honest, uh, picture of them?"

"They're the archnemesis of Grippenboor is what's wrong with them! Red 'n green, Horry! Fire and water! Uh, sugar and…and salt!"

"That's not an explanation!"

"I think…" Hermany starts but pauses. Romb and Horry look at her.

"No, nevermind."

Romb and Horry look at each other.

"Well, what is it!"

"I shouldn't say."

"Come on, out with it!"

"I—."

"Voltabort," says a blonde haired boy, butting in. "It's probably what she doesn't want to say."

"Oh," says Horry. Romb actually _hisses_ at him. "You didn't..uh, the thing, with the 'he-who-'…," Horry trails off.

"It's the worst sort of curse-by-association," the boy says, bored, "made it so everyone in his house can say his name without the embarrassing word-curse. But, I think Weeblebee here has the gist of it. Ancient house, ancient rivalry. Not much else different between us if you can get over that," he smiles, empty.

"Oh piss off McFloppy—Slyverins are _nothing_ like Grippenboors,"

Romb and the boy verbally spar with each other for a while, and Horry tunes them out, instead focusing on his wand. It still buzzes, faintly, but doesn't speak. He tries to focus on the buzzing— _willing_ it to respond. There's _structure_ in the buzzing, but it's almost like it's too far away—through several walls, heard through a pillow.

"—Dargo,"

Horry perks up, "What?"

"She knows who you are, doofus. Everyone does. Your dad is _infamous_ enough."

"Well, I'm not my father, Weeblebee." Dargo sighs, "This has been delightful. Good talk, everyone, I'll see you around Hermany, Horry," he nods at Horry, almost _knowingly_ , and drifts back towards something like a posse of six students on the other side of the hall.

"The hell was that all about!" fumes Romb.

"I don't think you're being entirely fair, Romb," Hermany says.

"He's the enemy! 'Course I'm being fair! Don't grab a snake by the mouth, Hermany! Don't do it!"

"I've…never heard anyone suggest you _should_ ,"

"You know what I mean!"

"I don't think I do…"

"He could say— _his_ name. Uh Voltabort-he-who-must-be-named. But he hasn't been Searched yet?"

"Don't need to search too hard to see where he'll end up," Romb grumps.

"I think…Alvin could do it too? Is there a way around the curse or something?"

"No," says Hermany, "Doubledoor was in Slyverin."

"Well, he's the only exception! Everyone else is trash! Trashgarbage!"

Horry notices a blonde girl, a bit on the other side of Dargo's group, staring at him. They lock eyes for a moment, but she breaks contact after a beat. She looks back, sees he's still looking, and then darts forwards, putting distance between them.

"Uh…"

"What is it?"

"I think…she recognizes me?" Horry points ahead, tracking the girl as she fades into the crowd ahead.

"Oh, blondie? Don't worry about Luna. She's harmless—bonkers, but harmless."


	16. Chapter 16

Ch. 16

 _Many Moggley wonder why the Church has not penetrated the Magickal world with the vigor it has so touched Moggley-kind. There are many explanations, some longer than others, but the simplest, and perhaps most effective is Library Tome number .999…-a rendition of the King James Holy Bible which describes, in detail, the exploits of the first holy vampire, Jesus Christ._

Syncretism and Sin, War Friar Emezethal Larblum

They continue down the hall, and it expands to accommodate them. Torches and lamps fold out of nowhere, and the ceiling extends upwards, first by inches, then by feet. Alvin's voice erupts from everywhere at once:

"These are the halls of Chogbort's. You will find them to be devious at the best of times. Senior students can offer you advice on how to navigate, but, honestly, it will take some time for the castle to get used to you, just as you get used to it," his voice has a tinge of humor.

They pass a yawning intersection, and down a side hall is an extravagant golden portal ringed by statues of beasts and thorns. Horry gasps as the perspective…pops? All of the statues are actually features of a great dragon head reaching out into the hall, with a door at the center of the mouth. The perspective keeps popping—like his mind keeps re-recognizing the outline as a different expression of the dragon's face—snarling, gnashing, even licking with a row of owl statues that—for but a moment—appear like the musculature of a wicked tongue.

"To the right, I hope you recognize the head of the Concept Dragon, one of Grippenboor's favorite trophies. It has graced our halls for over a millennium, now. Within its shifting maw, you will find the common rooms of Grippenboor, should your future be there."

At the next junction, to the far left a raven perches on a horizontal pole—an _actual_ raven—and to the far right, a massive crystal hangs in a wide space—puncturing the ground and walls with auxiliary crystalline growths.

"Next, of course, we have Ravenshard's Riddle. If you have to ask the question, then you don't know the answer," Alvin chortles knowingly.

" _What_?" says Horry, to no one in particular.

"Buncha nonsense," says Romb.

Hermany looks back and forth in awe.

The hall narrows ahead, and the portraiture and architectural embellishment gives way to doors—wall to wall, crammed next to one another, filling all available space—some at ground level, some in the air—some open, with older students poking their heads out and waving—some in the ceiling, with that magickal confetti leaking out of more than one.

"Hopplebop's Hall of Doors has even less of a permanent home than any other place in Chogbort's—which is a feat considering our ever-changing topography. Should you need a door, it will find you, as the common room is open to all."

The doors peter out, and the hall widens out again, but the light begins to dim. In the near distance, Horry recognizes the entry to the great hall, but it's still a short walk away. 

Suddenly, a hand seizes Horry from behind and pulls him into an alcove—it's…the girl? Luna? And she's absolutely terrified.

"H-Horry," she says, "Something is horribly wrong."

"Um," says Horry—Luna _quakes_ with unease.

"I-I-I-I don't know if it was a dream, or if, or if this is all…" she trails off looking around.

"I kind of had that feeling at first? I've been here a couple days…everything feels kind of wrong, right?" Horry tries.

"No, nonono that's not. H-Horry you're not…you're not _you_ and and and I sound crazy and…" she clutches her head. "It's been…it's been _years_ …" she trails off again.

"Maybe…you should talk to Madame Pampelmousses?

She looks Horry in the eye again, terror seizing her, "I'm…I'm sorry. I—," she turns and darts away, nearly bowling over Romb as she rounds the corner, towards the great hall.

Romb shakes his head and turns back to Horry, "C'mon Horry, everyone got all turned around for a second, but searchin's about to start!"

"This boy…is in GRIPPENBOOR."

Cheers from the Grippenboor contingent—polite clapping from Hopplebop—sparse clapping from Ravenshard, and silence from Slyverin. It's all the same, with minor permutations.

"This girl…is in SLYVERIN."

Maybe slightly more hissing for the Slyverins, but it's hard to tell.

"This one…is in HOPPLEBOP."

The Hopplebops come _close_ to matching Grippenboor's vigor, but they aren't really in it for the competition.

"This girl…is in RAVENSHARD."

The Ravenshards actually look a little embarrassed about making so much noise. Except for a small contingent of older students that might be a little buzzed.

Horry jams his hands in his pockets as the first year line gets shorter and shorter. Luna takes the stage, ahead, and she doesn't look to have calmed down. Her eyes are noticeably red, too.

"Aw hell, she doesn't look too good," says Romb.

The Hopplebops, detecting Luna's misery, shout words of encouragement in a messy chorus, eventually dissolving into a chant of, "LU-NA! LU-NA! LU-NA!" drowning out all but the beginning "RAVEN-!" from the hat. Ravenshard cheers with uncharacteristic vigor.

The hat looks…well, like a hat. A bit pointy on the top, a bit floppy around the rim—Horry never would've guessed it was over a thousand years old. Or capable of speech. Or special at all. It doesn't have any apparent mouth—the sound just vaguely… _emanates_ from it, halfway between speaking and shouting.

"This boy…is in SLYVERIN."

Professors sit in polite silence in a row behind the hat, with Alvin at the head. Occasionally, they will cheer and clap, but most take Alvin's lead of sitting quietly with just the tiniest hint of a smile. One man stands out on the row of faculty members for his complete lack of school livery—he looks more like a businessman, and focuses intensely on the hat.

"This girl…is in HOPPLEBOP."

Horry watches as Luna is lifted up into the air by her new Ravenshards—she still doesn't look terribly happy—still seems terrified of everything around her. He frowns, and considers the options ahead.

Grippenboor didn't seem quite right. He never felt particularly brave—or anything at all like a leader. And a strange, purposeless rivalry with a supposedly evil house never made much sense to him. Thus, Slyverin was out, too. While Horry had done relatively well in school, he definitely didn't feel anything like a kinship with the kids that self-identified as being the 'smart' ones. Hopplebops might work, but, if Horry's honest with himself, he simply doesn't like other people very much. He frowns a little more severely at that final observation.

Romb takes the stage in front of him. The moment that hat touches his head, it belts out:

"This boy…is in GRIPPENBOOR."

Not much surprise there. As Romb gallivants off to the Grippenboor table, and Hermany steps up to the hat, Horry feels a nervousness build, but it's not any particular, easily identifiable fear. Sure, hundreds of people are watching—but the opportunity to be in front of hundreds of people is so alien that he can't fully conceptualize how to respond to it—his body legitimately doesn't know what to think about it. So that's probably not it. Just a general, building unease. Like the sense of _wrong_ ness of the castle is seeping into him—like the mystery of the wand—of his strange blue-eyed copy—of an unknowable prophecy are all converging on him simultaneously and demanding an explanation before his mind will let him advance.

The hat sits on Hermany for a few seconds and even _gyrates_ for a bit, but:

"This girl...is in GRIPPENBOOR."

Hermany smiles and blushes, and runs off to join her new compatriots. Romb flails and hoots in shameless, unfiltered celebration.

Horry takes the stage—the cheering is the same, but there's a new edge to it. Some of the students definitely recognize him, and he realizes his heart races in his chest. Perhaps standing in front of hundreds of people _is_ terrifying. Yes. Definitely that.

He sits, and Alvin sets the hat on him with a smile. Almost immediately:

"This boy…does not have a soul."


	17. Chapter 16 Aftermath Pt 1

_Author's notes: This aftermath chapter is in 4 parts, released over 4 days, starting Tuesday, December 26, 2017. Be sure you've read any previously posted chapters. Sorry for the late post, fanfictiondotnet is broken and not accepting new documents so I'm relying on a work-around to post for the time being._

 _Aftermath - Headmaster_

- _Abra cadabra._

"This boy…does not have a soul."

The room erupts in silence. After letting the shock sink in for five seconds, he activates his Eye and the world becomes light. _'Now'_ appears as a slice—a thin edge of reality that stretches backwards into foggy threads of possibility. The boy, in front of him, stretches far back into the past as a knot of motion all throughout the busy castle. The hat atop his head, much like the wand in his pocket, sits in stark stillness, next to the tempest of the boy's energy.

 _'Now'_ inches forward as he steps towards the boy and lifts the hat from his head, plopping it on his own. The threads of possibility _crystalize_ —his reach into the past becoming clearer, and every edge sharpens. He slips the wand from the boy's pocket in jittering advancements of the 'now', and the worldsheet _bends_.

Yawning blackness surrounds him on all sides. Only pinpricks of light punctuate the lives around him, which thread forwards and backwards in time off to distant, fuzzy horizons. Undulating currents ripple off of his soul as he tears into space, leaving the castle far behind. Velocity is abstract, malleable, so he breaks it. Energy crackles round his winding path to the stratosphere—out past cloud and deep into sky. Blackness intensifies, but for distant stars and the streaking earth as it stretches threads of magickal life in tremendous spirals around the sun—through voids of nothingness.

Entropy frays the edges of the threads on the horizons, so he focuses his gaze. Even here, so far away, the boy's thread is visible from the beginning—his soul. No obvious breaks mar the thread, but the boy's pain stains it. Only fleeting hints of joy blossom along the thread—minutes, maybe _hours_ total of life, and Alvin falters. Unless he finds it, the outcomes are clear. The boy's threads arc off into violent fractal ends—many already lifeless. Many already lost.

ALVIN.

"No," he says.

EVEN I CAN'T CHANGE THIS.

"Unless I act now, the boy is lost."

VIOLENCE TO THE FIRMAMENT WILL NOT SAVE HIM.

Each thread has a texture—a coarseness to it. Raveled and unraveled, he sorts through them from his cosmic perch, looking, desperately searching for the singularity—the puncture in the boy's soul. Every passing moment is but another nail in the boy's determined fate. Dread bubbles in that tiny, still-human part of Alvin, as he narrows his search. As it narrows down to a pinprick of time, dread twists into panic. Loose threads weave through the boy on a far distant roof—still as glass in a slice of spacetime, points of rain frozen around him—and the threads wind suddenly into nothingness. Violent edges emerge from nowhere and pick up in their place nanoseconds later. It's an interrupt in his soul—a dead thread from nowhere, hijacking his destiny.

"No," Alvin whispers again, as he reads the firmament, and recognizes the enormity of his failure.


	18. Chapter 16 Aftermath Pt 2

_Author's notes: This aftermath chapter is in 4 parts, released over 4 days, starting Tuesday, December 26, 2017. Be sure you've read any previously posted chapters._

 _Aftermath - Professor of Biologickal Sciences_

"This boy…does not have a soul."

Sebulus opens his mouth in a half-gasp. _Interesting._

Alvin seems to recover first in the grand hall, and after striding forward past Horry, explodes into violent blue magick and arcs into the sky. Sebulus sweeps over the room with his eyes—most are shocked, or simply confused. But on a select few faces, he sees people that _recognize_ , and on an even smaller number, he sees an _anger_.

"The boy is not magickal?" says someone, almost too soft to hear.

Sebulus catches Minnie's eye, and their mutual expressions communicate _volumes_. After a beat, she nods at him—barely noticeable—resigned.

He stands suddenly, and strides forward. After a series of sharp wand movements and muttered incantations, a glowing cage appears around the boy, and he _cracks_ out of the room.

"It seems," he begins, affecting a thick layer of derision, "that against all odds, a Moggley thought themselves capable of passing for a _student_ in our hallowed halls. I'm sure the _Headmaster_ ," he pauses for a fraction of a beat, "will see to—,"

A tornado of blue light crackles as Alvin reappears. Sebulus pauses, unable to suppress an overwhelming sense of terror in the man's presence as he _glows_ with the full trappings of his power. The Eye fades, and he places the hat on a chair in the center of the room.

"Professor Snope, please see to the remainder of the ceremony,"

"I…of course Headmaster," Sebulus nods his head in a curt bow.

With another _crack_ , the Headmaster disappears.

Silence soon after gives way to whispering. Sebulus strides to the hat, and his presence dampens the noise.

"The next student will approach," he says, stern.

From then on, the cheers don't have the same edge—the focus is, of course, elsewhere. Sebulus watches the usual suspects—already sitting next to each other, but now huddled in conversation, all but ignoring the remaining Searches. The McFloy boy sits close to the inner ring, listening patiently.

Sebulus purses his lips.

The crowd of first-years thins, and as each additional student finds their way to a table, the man sitting on the end of the row from Sebulus grows more fidgety. Finally, as only five students or so are left, the man stands abruptly, and strides down to Sebulus. He bends towards Sebulus, as Sebulus sits, unmoving.

"Professor..erm, Sebulus. Alvin _assured_ me that my House would have students this year."

Eyes straight ahead, "Mr. Jurgensnöl, I assure you that was not the Headmaster's wording."

The man nods along as Sebulus speaks but pauses, and frowns.

"But he said—,"

"If I remember correctly," Sebulus pauses, and turns his head, looking the man directly in the eye, "he said the Hat will find every student in your House without difficulty. This is entirely consistent, you should note, with your House not having any students."

"I have given a _considerable_ advance of magickal material to this school and—,"

"This boy…is in JURGENSNÖL."

"Speak of the devil," says Sebulus—a single eyebrow raised—as he turns to the hat.

The boy was the last in line, and looks positively _elated_. Confused cheers and clapping burst out, mostly from Hopplebops, with a fair bit of laughter.

Sebulus rises, ignoring the 'patron', and advances on the boy.

"Mr. Longbutter, as the first Scion of your new House, a _considerable_ weight rests upon your shoulders," the boy's smile vanishes, and he _cowers_ in Sebulus' presence. "House Hopplebop has _graciously_ offered their resources until you can…make something of yourself. And your new House."

The boy nods, and flees, terrified. Cheers greet him at the Hopplebop table.

Sebulus collects himself, and stands at the front of the hall, considering the students.

"I had hoped that the Headmaster would have returned by now to do the _honor_ of sending you off to the rest of your day in the accompaniment of your new Houses, as he is ever so more encouraging in his _diction_." Sebulus pauses, looking students from each House in the eye, in turn.

"I will, instead, be short: Chogbort's is an honor and a privilege. _Failure_ is a far easier road than greatness. Do us proud, and good luck." He nods once, and gestures dismissively with a hand.

The students rise in a flurry of motion, bubbling up and away down different halls towards the beginnings of the rest of their Magickal lives. The room _sighs_ as they leave, and shrinks down—almost a quarter its previous size. Torches rotate away and buzzing lamps replace them. The carpet recedes under a wall, revealing a patchwork of disorganized cobblestone flooring.

Sebulus turns around, and eyes each of the faculty. Minnie _vibrates_ with worried concern. Quimulus looks off into the middle distance with unfocused eyes, apparently not realizing or perhaps not caring that the ceremony has completed. Philium mirrors Minnie with concern crossing his brow—mustache tilting up and down as he chews on a pipe. Sephyra frowns into an array of floating, glowing displays in front of her. Sonoma chews nervously on a root. Mr. Jurgensnöl fusses with a seam of his jacket—thoroughly out of place, and unsure of what to do.

As the last students leave the chamber, Minnie approaches him.

"To the dungeon, then," he says, frowning.


	19. Chapter 16 Aftermath Pt 3

_Aftermath – Groundskeeper_

"C'mon, beastie—I'll miss the Searchin' at this rate…"

Vines tighten around his arms. _You're dead. You're dead. You're already dead you're dead._

"None o' that now—,"

 _Just stop breathing it's okay you're already dead_.

"Pretty sure ye've already made me miss the beginnin' but I can't blame ye for yer nature, now kin I?"

 _e…_

"Really, now."

… _f g H._

The vines twist and become more…abstract, like something between bark and metal.

 _O._

"I really don't want to hurt ye, but this is gettin' outta hand."

 _i…_

Horbid strains against it, and the afternoon sun wavers.

… _R._

 _Horbid_.

Horbid _groans_ and reaches for his axe.

 _Horbid you wouldn't cut_ her _would you._

The constraints become flesh—grasping arms and faces. Horbid looks away.

"Final warnin' beastie."

A blue lightning bolt _explodes_ out of the castle in the distance, leaving a great cylindrical void in the heavy clouds above. The creature recoils abruptly around him.

"Well tha's not good."

Horbid lifts the axe out of the ground while the creature slinks back—the arms are still abstract, but the face…the face is...more real than real.

"I'm not gonna show ye to the students if yur gonna play dirty like that."

 _You're dead Horbid you killed me and you're dead I'm dead._

He backs out of the enclosure, dragging the feedbucket with his free hand, and shuts the gate. A second lightning bolt bathes the enclosure in blue light, and the creature recedes back further, taking a formless, pulsating, globular shape.

"Lessee what all this is about then," Horbid mumbles to himself, trudging towards the castle.

The Great Hall is empty, as are the faculty lounge, and the Headmaster's office. Students are out and about, but the halls are sparse. Horbid turns to a wall, and knocks on a free stretch between two portraits. A board slides away, revealing a small window into the Hopplebop common area.

"What's the password?"

"Very funny, Dergory. What's all the thunder 'n lightnin' about?"

"Oh, you weren't there? Thought something was missing. It was about the Patter boy. He's Moggley! Got sent to the dungeon!"

"Well that dun' make any sense 'tall. He kin cast spells. How in the world ye figure 'e's Moggley?"

"What? You saw him cast a spell?"

"I taught 'im 'is first spell, 'course I did!"

"Well, the Searching Hat said he didn't have a soul. So Doubledoor went full Lightning Mode, and Snope banished Patter to the dungeon for holding."

"The _dungeon_? Are they _mad_? Do they know what the boy's been through these past couple'a days?"

"Uhm, no? What _has_ he been through?"

But Horbid's already stomping down the hall towards the dungeons.

 _Aftermath – Minister of Magickal Affairs_

"So does the boy have a soul or not?"

" _Everyone_ has a soul, Minister, it's just a matter of whether or not the soul is magickally _attuned_."

The minister rolls his eyes. He didn't have time for divinity politics when all evidence seems to indicate that the most important location in the magickal world had _just been infiltrated by Moggley_. An _infamous_ Moggley from warizard parents, perhaps, but such distinctions mattered little. In some ways, that made it quite a bit worse, in fact.

"I'm asking a very simple question, Sephyra. I do not want an _academic_ answer."

"Minister, with due respect, souls are _terrifyingly_ high-dimensional objects. When Marlin fashioned the Searching Hat, he instructed it to perform measurements on only a small part of a soul's potential Hilbert space, and only in very particular directions. The boy's soul, to the extent he has one, does not, well, _point_ in any of those directions."

Cornwallis pinches the bridge of his nose and turns to Alvin, "Alvin, can you give me a straight damned answer that does not involve the word 'Hilbert space'?"

Alvin stares at the magickal partition separating them from the boy, lost in thought. He taps his chin with a finger slowly, rhythmically, and he exudes a tired sadness.

"Alvin!"

Alvin turns towards the minister, "Yes, Cornwallis."

"Do I need to declare war on Moggley kind or not?" Cornwallis huffs—it isn't a serious question, but he hopes it will inject the appropriate _gravity_ into the circumstances.

"A spell was cast upon the boy during an attack last night. We did not know what the spell did, but now I think we are beginning to see its purpose. Sephyra is correct. The boy has a soul, but it seems to be magickally...compromised."

"What the hell does that mean, Alvin?"

"It means we're losing." Alvin stands, and the occupants of the room all shift nervously.

"Well…" starts Cornwallis, "can I…see something to cool down the Warzengambit? The boy's book perhaps?"

"It is gone."

Cornwallis freezes. "Someone infiltrated the _Library too_?"

"Unlikely," Alvin says, exhausted, "The Library is fickle at the best of times. It is most likely simply responding to his newly…scrambled soul."

"How do you lose track of a book!"

"The Library is quite large, Cornwallis. Feel free to look for it, if you so desire,"

"Dammit Alvin, give me something to work with, here!"

"Perhaps—," Sebulus cuts in, and the room refocuses upon him, "we could _talk_ to the boy?"

Cornwallis looks at him like he's insane.

"An excellent suggestion, Sebulus," and the tired old warizard walks through the barricade, leaving the room behind.


	20. Chapter 16 Aftermath Pt 4

_Aftermath V_

Pen in hand, he turns a page, chortling to himself, "I believe this is when it starts to get interesting."


	21. Chapter 17

Ch. 17

 _The vast majority of the Library's books are pages and pages of gibberish. Some spells exist to parse the tomes by compressibility—ordering by word-entropy—and these functioned well, for a time. But, the Library, as if sensing the assault on its vast stores, responded by reorganizing the stacks closest to the entrance to contain miles and miles of tomes filled with gibberish with exactly the same entropy as 19_ _th_ _Century Catalan. Magickally-automated spell-finding has since…tread more carefully._

 _The Selfish Seam – Dick Hawkleyn_

Horry sits still in the cold stone room with his backpack splayed out behind him, and sheets of paper arranged in front of him. Too much movement causes an overwhelming sense of fear and alarm to trickle down his spine which compounds the closer he gets to the walls, so he remains as motionless as he can, moving only occasionally to pick up and read a different sheet.

 _He brushed hair out of her eyes with a hand. She wore sadness on her face in a way that made his heart ache._

" _It's okay, Horry. I just wish it could have bee_

He slides a page to the side.

 _anced on Alvin and, with a precise swipe, tore out Alvin's left Eye. Alvin collapsed, quaking—his wand, shattered._

" _My dear boy, it will not give you wh_

He looks to the side.

 _odies exploded from the sheer outpouring of magick from the man, but Horry kept his footing. Each time a cut or gash or limb was shredded by the spell, it reappeared, just as it was before._

" _You made a pro_

Turns it over:

 _one of those forgettable moments—not terribly interesting, not even markedly boring for that matter. It was a moment in time, remarkable for how unremarkable it_

He picks up a different sheet.

 _arced familiar blue light through his mind, cleaving off skin, muscle, bone—tearing through his core—shredding his sou_

Turns the page around.

 _wasn't what I wanted. It wasn't what you promised. It isn't real. It's worse than fake."_

"I do love the good twist, but do be careful, Harry. Wouldn't want to spoil it all too soon. Look up, my boy, and tread lightly."

The background dread dissipates suddenly, and a door ahead opens out of nowhere. Horry looks up.

"Hello again, Horry."

Horry looks back down at the collected sheets in front of him.

 _Horry J. Patter, August 1_ _st_ _, 1982 – December 15_ _th_ _, 2015?_

"They aren't obscured anymore," says Horry.

Alvin looks down, "Ah, hm," he pauses.

"I don't know which is stranger—that the date of my death is in front of me? Or the question marks? Like.. _that's_ weird."

"Horry…" Alvin starts.

"I would ask to go home. But…" Horry trails off.

Alvin frowns.

"Did I do something wrong?"

" _No_ Horry, no absolutely not."

"Why am I in a uhm fear-room?"

"It's a precaution against Moggley spies. It is ah a bit dated—we have not seriously worried about Moggley threats for quite some time. But we are nonetheless bound by law."

"So I'm…Moggley?"

"No Horry. You could not cast spells if you were."

"But I haven't cast any spells since I was uh…attacked." Horry's face is blank—expressionless.

"Then feel free to try now," says Alvin.

"But—," Horry starts, but he feels the wand slide into his pocket from nowhere. "Oh," he says, taking it out.

" _Lucemus splendescerus urerie cunctas oculisa paulorio,"_ he says, and a thin red lines erupt from the wand, pointing at the sheets on the ground, as well as directly into his heart. He feels nothing.

"Proof enough that you may remain in the school as long as you wish, I think," Alvin says, giving a mirrored wall a long glance.

"But…I don't have a soul."

"I assure you, you do," Alvin says, but his smile is betrayed by his terribly sad eyes.

"But…something is wrong, isn't it?"

Alvin sighs for what feels like the thousandth time that day, "Voltabort's reach extends through death, it seems,"

"But I did this to me." It wasn't a question.

Alvin eyes the mirrored wall again, but continues, "Sometimes the simplest resolution to a paradox is the most straightforward: it wasn't you that did this."

"It was me," is all Horry says, eyes fixed on the pages in front of him—on the _violence_.

"Even so," Alvin crouches down next to Horry, "A long time ago, an old warizard thought himself clever enough to cleave magick itself—powerful enough to change a mistake—to inject himself into another's story. Long before Voltabort—long before anyone else here. But the universe does not care about our pain, Horry. The universe is a studious record-keeper, nothing else. So when that foolish old warizard bent the wheel of all creation into itself to rectify his mistake, all he saw was a man he no longer recognized—a story that was no longer his."

"You mean…you're saying you fought your older self?"

"I'm saying my older self _lost_ ," Alvin looks at his hands.

Horry looks up at Alvin, "But that means—that he—you—you could've changed something. That you _can_ change things. But that you can't… Can you or can't you?" something wavers in Horry's voice, and it is not kind.

"Horry, very few people really understand the _extent_ of our Library—what it truly _means_ for it to be infinite beyond count. For every choice you have ever been confronted with, there is a tome, somewhere in our halls, detailing your life after you made that choice—with a new branch for every choice thereafter. You could fill the cosmos with books of the choices you have and haven't made."

"But those are just…books," Horry trails off in the middle of the last word.

"Indeed, they are books. Books that tell stories so close to yours as to be imperceptible—stories that track your life, word for word, but for a pebble's difference on the other side of the galaxy. But also books that tell stories that diverge so wildly from yours that they might as well be different people—because they _are_ different people. 'You' are a fiction, Horry. 'You' are a thread of possible lives and possible eventualities. But, and this is the grandest paradox of it all, 'you' are special, because 'you' are here, right now."

"What do I even do then?"

"You choose, Horry. Fitting, I think, for your story thus far—and the first in history at that," Alvin smiled, genuinely, for the first time in what felt like hours.

"A House?"

"Yes, Horry."

Horry looks down again at the sheets in front of him, then up again.

"I'm…free? Just like that?"

"Free as any full student of Chogbort's," Alvin's smile falters for but a moment.

"It's…everything's okay?"

"For now, I think so, yes. For after, well, we shall see."

Horry touches a page, and slides it—maybe an inch.

"Did you throw a book at me earlier today?"

Alvin's eyebrows raise, "Ah, no Horry..."

Then, after a beat, "Grippenboor."

Horbid, flanked by several other faculty, greet Horry as he exits the fear-room. He claps Horry on the shoulder with an enormous hand.

"I 'eard wot 'appened 'Orry, we're terribly sorry 'bout all this. How're ye doin'?"

"I'm okay, I think," Horry says, clutching his bookbag close.

Alvin follows, "Will that suffice, Cornwallis?"

"It would have _helped_ if I could _hear anything you were saying_ , but yes, the boy clearly is not Moggley," the man says frowning.

"On behalf of the King, I would like to proffer a formal apology, Mister Patter. It seems this has been a…misunderstanding. Although it _is_ troublesome that magick exists which can…fool the Hat."

"Oh um, okay."

"Horbid, see to it that Horry reaches the Grippenboor common area. I'm sure they would be delighted to meet their newest member."

Horbid's eyes light up and he turns to Horry.

"Congratulations!"

"Ah, thanks," Horry smiles a tight smile.

Alvin ushers Horbid and Horry to a door, "There remains a bit of politicking to do—should you need anything Horry, your wand can contact me easily," he winks. Horry gives him a half smile as he closes the door.

"I can't believe they put ye in the dungeon. Buncha _madmen_ ," Horbid grumbles.

"It's okay…I think I just…need to walk for a while."

"You sure yer okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah I think I'll be fine. It's this way, right?"

"Yeah, o' course, just round the corner—follow the gold-rimmed portraits. Or, just take any four rights 'n six lefts. Tha's the secret way," Horbid smiles, but his brow is still knitted with concern.

"Thank you again, Horbid." It felt strange thanking the enormous man that sort of almost killed him—twice—but Horbid had a genuine _niceness_ to him—and he was the closest thing to a real friend in this strange place that Horry had.

"'O course, 'Orry. See ya fer class tomorrow," Horbid waves.

Horry chews on the old man's words as he makes his way through the castle. The journey to the Grippenboor common room had come with little other fanfare—except for the lingering question of why a school needed an infinitely large terror-fortress in its basement.

The headmaster always seems to be terribly vague when discussing this fate-changing magick—as if the only thing that will squeeze an additional detail out of him is some more, different extravagant trauma performed upon Horry. As frustrating as it is, his reluctance makes sense—at least to Horry—if it is still a sore spot. Horry tries to imagine facing off with his terrifying, scar-covered older self again, and feels a wave of shivers down his neck and spine.

What doesn't entirely make sense though, is why Alvin prevented his future self from rectifying the mistake—whatever it had been. Or maybe he _hadn't_ and Alvin was being coy—and _is_ the older self. Actually, there wasn't any guarantee Alvin is _any_ of the Alvins he had been talking about, what with the possibility of time travel _and_ apparently the power to "inject" oneself into another story, unless Horry misunderstands him…or maybe it was all rhetorical? Trying to scare Horry away from even the thought of this story-fate-destiny magick? That it only ever led to ruin? Couldn't entirely argue with that, given the appearance of his older self…

Horry massages his temples, feeling the beginnings of headache.

APOLOGIES, MASTER PATTER.

Horry _jumps_ but then immediately tears the wand from his pocket.

"You!"

YES MASTER PATTER.

"You have some explaining to do!"

THAT IS WHAT I DO, YES.

"I, er, why aren't you talking when other people are around!"

IT IS VERY DIFFICULT TO PROBE YOUR BRAIN CORRECTLY WHEN OTHER PEOPLE ARE AROUND TO DISTRACT YOU.

"That's! Ahh! You're probing my brain!?"

WELL, I DO NOT HAVE ANY SORT OF RESONANT CAVITY BECAUSE I AM, STRUCTURALLY, A STICK, SO YES I COMMUNICATE WORDS DIRECTLY INTO YOUR BRAIN. I HAVE BEEN TRYING DIFFERENT FORMS OF VIBRATION BUT UNFORTUNATELY I AM QUITE SHORT AND IT IS NOT TERRIBLY EFFECTIVE. PERHAPS IF YOU PUT ME ON A PANE OF GLASS?

"What?"

THERE, THAT PORTRAIT, PUT ME ON THE PORTAIT.

Horry, utterly flabbergasted, puts the wand on the glass.

NOW PLEASE HOLD ME BY THE END OF MY HANDLE.

Losing patience rapidly, Horry presses the wand against the glass by the far end from the tip.

"YES THAT IS MUCH BETTER," shouts the wand, vibrating the portrait in its place. The occupant—a heavily armored fellow wielding a _tremendous_ claymore glares murderously at Horry.

"Ahg!" shouts Horry, dropping the wand.

IT HELPS IF YOU DO NOT DROP ME.

"Why didn't—wait, no, more importantly, why can you talk!"

WE'VE BEEN OVER THIS MASTER PATTER.

"No we absolutely have not! Other wands do not talk!"

CLEARLY I AM NOT LIKE OTHER WANDS.

Horry _groans_. "Are you going to be mysterious about this? You're not going to explain how you can talk? Hermany said magick can't make wands talk!"

HERMANY IS A VERY INTELLIGENT YOUNG LADY. YOU SHOULD TALK TO HER MORE.

"Ahhhhhh!" Horry yells, rounding the corner to the hall with the Concept Dragon. It lurks, in different snapshots of rest—'eyes' closed, head tilted to the left, tilted to the right.

FOR FUTURE REFERENCE, IF YOU STICK ME IN YOUR EAR, I CAN PROBABLY COMMUNICATE WITH YOU WHILE OTHERS ARE AROUND.

"Good. Great. Then we're doing an experiment," says Horry, stamping into the Dragon's maw.


	22. Chapter 18

Ch. 18

 _Mutually assured destruction was a game that could only have been devised by the reckless ingenuity of Moggley. That it be made a permanent state of affairs could only have been achieved by the nihilistic opportunism of Warizards._

 _-1977 inauguration speech of War Minister Darmoor Valegoul_

The walls _drip_ with resplendence. Trophies, weapons, treasures hang on hooks, are recessed in display niches, are driven deep into the ground surrounded by little other than felted rope. Something that looks like a dinosaur-skeleton snakes around a central column—lit from above by great sunshoots that shine far brighter than the dreary skies of Britain. The room is tiered, with a mix of wood and gold colonnades supporting the balconies of each tier around the center, and clusters of couches and tables pepper each floor.

Horry turns round and round taking it all in, until he notices that essentially everyone within sight is staring at him.

"Oi!"

Horry pauses and looks towards an older, taller students that called out to him.

"Uh, hi?"

"You're late!"

"Oh…uh…"

"Other first years went that-a-way," the students thumbs towards a great golden rimmed portal-door on the far wall. "Selecting classes 'n whatnot. You're the famous kid, right?"

"Oh I don't think…um…maybe?"

The boy snorts a laugh, "Well are you or aren't you?" An older girl pipes up next to him, "Weren't you at the _Searching_? He's the dead kid,"

"What?" says Horry. She lifts up a large sheet of paper—it looks like the news, but it's much busier—more colorful—and all the images _move_. Some are even jumping out of the page. She points to the headline:

HORRY PATTER, THE BOY WHO DIED?

MURMURS OF A MOGGLEY INFILTRATION AT CHOGBORT'S CASTLE

"Oh, right, uhm, no I'm not dead."

"Well clearly!"

"Where did you say the others went?"

He points again towards the portal. "Hey, Horry, right? First rule of Grippenboor, don't expect any special treatment, now. Even if you _are_ famous. Or, y'know, dead." The students all snicker, except another older girl that punches the first boy in the arm, "Don't be such a tosser, he's probably traumatized! I heard they put him in the dungeon!"

"Crikey! They put Jiggory in the dungeon for a spell after a fight one year…" the conversation refocuses away from Horry.

"I…yeah. Okay," Horry says, to no one, and walks past them, frowning a bit as he heads towards the portal. He feels a familiar twist of unease, and that terrible _pressure_ from the eyes of people that recognize him around the room.

When he passes through the portal, the air temperature noticeably drops, and when he turns around, he sees the portal has become a wall. He places his palm against it, suspecting a prank, but continues on when he hears the sound of tens of voices. Rounding another corner, he sees the contingent of Grippenboor first years, all sitting in tables of four or so—chatting excitedly and pointing at leaflets they must've gathered from a table near the front of the room.

Horry spots Romb and Hermany sitting with another girl on the edge of the room, and slinks around. He darts to their table and sits when everyone seems to be focusing on the papers in front of them.

"Horry!" Hermany and Romb exclaim simultaneously. A couple of nearby tables notice, but it doesn't have the same _arresting_ effect as it had earlier in the common room—when literally the entire contingent stopped what they were doing and focused on him. Horry looses a short sigh of relief.

"Hi," says Horry.

"You're—you escaped! Are you… _moggley?_ " Romb says, almost whispering the last word.

"No. Well. Probably not. My soul is scrambled they think. I don't know what that means…"

"The magickal world is so strange about this soul business," says Hermany, "I could hardly find any books that actually _spell anything out_. And then I found a whole bunch of books that looked to be just really advanced arithmantics. Doesn't really at all feel like, well, _religion._ "

"You…you two know _Horry Patter_?" whisper-shrieks the other girl.

"Oh, Horry, this is Daisy. And well, we met him earlier today," says Hermany to Horry and Daisy, in turn.

"Hi," says Horry, again, feeling _terribly_ awkward.

"But everything's really all right, Horry? One of the scarier Profs made it sound like you were banished…"

"Yeah, I think it's okay. There was some government guy there and he said sorry and everything, so maybe it was just a mistake? I feel like it's kind of an overreaction…"

"Well, last time Moggley breached Chogborts, it wasn't too pretty," says Romb, ominously.

"Was back durin' the great Moggley Wars. First or second—who's keepin' track, really? Were lookin' for an edge and shot up the place. I mean…they didn't stand a chance, but torbantula bites still kill, y'know?"

"Uhh, yeah..." says Horry. He sort of doesn't even want to know.

"Romb, that was the _Vietnam war_. That was _barely_ twenty years ago,"

"Well how am I supposed to know with all the wars them Moggley are havin' all the time?"

"It's not like Warizards don't have wars either!"

"Yeah, but we had the good sense to actually _stop_ crazy people from ever getting' spells that could destroy the world. You Moggley folks just looooove to sit there with your fingers on the button,"

"Romb, magick is _far_ more dangerous than any weapons Moggley have devised—even accounting for…for nuclear weapons!"

"Not how I see it—name me _one_ spell that can end the world. Any one,"

"You could…you could use vacuum spells and shield spells to…build a container for a whole big chunk of antimatter! How isn't that catastrophically more dangerous!"

"I heard Headmaster Doubledoor forbid antimatter weapons…" says Daisy—like it's gossip—like it's tea-time conversation that someone is capable of single-handedly preventing a planet from doing a particular thing.

"See, so it is possible! And the only reason it isn't a problem is because one man has set up one safeguard that could possibly fail at any moment!"

Romb rolls his eyes, "For one, that is definitely more than one spell. For two, the point" he gesticulates with his leaflet, "is that Warizards _have_ those safeguards. They might be flimsy, but what's to stop the Russkies from destroying the planet? What's stopping America from destroying the planet?"

"Why can't Warizards just…teleport away all the nukes into space?" asks Horry, sliding Hermany's leaflet over in front of himself.

"Cause American warizards helped fix up their bombs," says Romb.

"How does that not completely prove my point!" Hermany's nearly yelling now.

"Because Moggley made the bombs in the first place! Warizards just got bribed into makin' em sturdy enough to withstand magickal attack,"

"Oh, so America doesn't just have nukes, they have magickal nukes too?"

"Russkies, too."

"Nobody calls them that, Romb."

"Just sayin', nukes are a problem of purely Moggley origin,"

Horry tries to concentrate on the leaflet:

FIRST YEAR SUGGESTED COURSEWORK

INTRODUCTORY ARITHMANCY I

MAGICKAL HISTORY I

TRANSMOGRIFICATION I

BIOLOGICKAL AND ALCHEMICKAL SCIENCES I

MAGICKAL BEASTS AND WHERE THEY MIGHT RESIDE I

ELECTIVES, PICK TWO (to be taken in years 1 through 4)

DEFENSIVE MAGICKS I, II, III, IV

SPELL SYNERGIES AND PLACEBOMANCY I, II, III, IV*

CHRONOMANCY -1

CHRONOMANCY 0*

STATISTICKAL ARITHMANCY*

GEOMETRICKAL ARITHMANCY

ARTS AND CRAFT**

SPORT**

DUELCRAFT**

STORYCRAFT I, II*

MOGGLEY TRADITION (on hold this semester)

ELECTIVES (to be taken in years 5 through 7 or with waiver)

CHRONOMANCY 1*

LOGICKAL ARITHMANCY* I, II, III

THEORETICKAL ARITHMANCY* I, II

OFFENSIVE MAGICK I, II, III

LIBRARYCRAFT (prerequisite: Storycraft track)

ADVANCED SYNERGIES AND MINDCRAFT (prerequisite: Spell synergies track)

VARSITY SPORT**

VARISTY DUELCRAFT**

NECROMANTICKS

DIVINOMANCY

LANGUAGES**

COMPARATIVE HISTORY: A SURVEY OF MOGGLEY AND MAGICKAL TRADITION

NOTE: LISTED ELECTIVES ARE GUARANTEED TO BE OFFERED ON A YEARLY BASIS EXCEPTING CHRONOMANCY. UNLISTED ELECTIVES MAY APPEAR ON A MORE SPORADIC BASIS.

*(Concurrent enrollment with appropriate-level Arithmancy course suggested)

**(Can be repeated for credit).

"Does 'necromanticks' mean what I think it means?" asks Horry.

"Oh, no, I got really worried when I read that the first time. It's more like a history class on Moggley religions more than anything. There are a couple of spells for animating the dead, but they don't really, um, resurrect or anything," Hermany glares at Romb.

"Hm," says Horry, as he takes his wand out and presses it in his ear.

I THOUGHT WE WERE GOING TO DO AN EXPERIMENT.

Hermany, Romb, and Daisy all stare at Horry like he's lost his mind.

"We'll get to that shortly! Just, give me some—I don't know, advice!"

"Horry, are…you sure you're alright?"

"Ahhg, here, um, wand, explain to Hermany," Horry hands the wand to Hermany.

Hermany continues to stare at Horry like he's lost his mind.

"Put it in your ear!"

Hermany—slowly—raises the want to her ear. After a moment she _jumps_ and yelps, dropping it.

"See!"

"It talks!"

"Whaddya mean?" Romb picks it up and jams it in his hear.

"Ahhg!" yells Romb, dropping it.

"What did it say!"

"To stop dropping it!"

Horry picks it up again.

REALLY, NOW.

"Just, I don't know, summarize! I can sort of guess what these are, but I don't really know anything about them. Which electives are …I don't know, best?"

MASTER PATTER, YOUR CHOGBORTSIAN ADVENTURE IS OF YOUR OWN DESIGN, OTHERWISE IT IS NOT _YOURS_.

"What's it saying?"

"It's being _profoundly unhelpful._ Can't you just beam words into their heads too?"

THAT WOULD BE DIFFICULT. EACH MIND IS LIKE A DIFFERENT DOOR—DIFFERENT SET OF LOCKS, DIFFERENT SET OF KEYS, TO USE AN ANALOGY THAT OBSCURES THE ENTIRETY OF THE TREMENDOUS DIFFICULTY OF THE TASK. ALSO I DO NOT HAVE THEIR PERMISSION.

"And you have mine?!"

I AM YOUR WAND, MASTER PATTER.

"Would it _help_?"

NOT REALLY.

Horry sets the wand back down.

"Okay, what are you guys taking? My wand isn't helping out here."

"Sport and defensive magicks," says Romb, immediately, with a smile.

"Um, I read over the course catalog at home, and I've heard defensive magick is really good depending on the teacher. Quibble is supposed to be good…but beyond that, um, maybe Chronomancy -1? We don't have to fully decide until next week…" Hermany says, giving the wand a worried look.

"Defensive magick and duelcraft," says Daisy, and everyone stares at her.

"What?" she says.

"I dunno," says Romb, "kinda…violent."

" _For a girl_?" she glares at Romb, joining Hermany.

"No! I mean, duels are, like, crazy dangerous! Someone almost got killed last year in varsity!"

"Well, my dad was a champion duelist, so I'm gonna be a champion duelist, and that's that." Daisy nods with finality.

Romb sighs.

"Well, it'd be nice to have at least one elective with you guys. So Defensive Magicks it is, I guess. Maybe also Storycraft? I don't know how that works if your story is gone, though…"

"Where did it go?"

"Got, uh, lost after...well…it's a long story…"


	23. Chapter 19

Ch. 19

 _Home is that intangible thing that you feel in your soul only when you've come to truly know a place—when you can wake up, and smile, in self-satisfaction, that you're safe—a place that feels right. Or even feels off, but in the right ways, like the way the sunlight might catch you right in the eye in a certain time of the year. Alternatively, you can drink a bottle of Home Tonic, because that sensation has been magickally isolated._

Recipe #1014, Alchemickal Craft and Cruft 12th Edition

Horry's recounting of the past couple of day's events to Hermany, Romb, and Daisy takes the better part of the afternoon—accounting for occasional interruptions to assure passerbys that he is not, in fact Moggley, or, for that matter, dead.

After class selection, they continue on a more expansive tour around the castle—including a view of the sport's pitch, and an _entirely_ too close trip to the lake. The castle has…subdued? Different bits still seem to rotate along a thousand different axes, but the gargoyle's battle has reached some sort of incomprehensible end, with one identical-looking faction having declared victory and littered the outer surface of the castle in the body parts of the other.

The moat water still sloshes in turbulent slow-motion, though. A blob of ejecta occasionally ventures too far from the surface, and time seems to _catch_ _up_ for it, the father it gets away.

Frothy spray foams at Horry and Hermany's feet as they watch the water.

"You're sure it was…you? I'm sure plenty of people have cactus tattoos…you are pretty famous, Horry,"

"Definitely…I…I think I know some of his story even. When I'd copied some of my book with Horbid, the text became readable after whatever he did. And it was…well…Hermany, I just wrote down random pages…random pages out of a _life story_. And like half of them were _terrifying_. I think—I think that's what I was going to be…if he didn't do whatever he did?"

"Maybe…but…who's to say he didn't hex your books too? Or just scramble your story? Just because it's _his_ story doesn't mean it's yours too,"

"I dunno," Horry squeezes his arms around himself, unsure what else to say. Cool moat-spray tickles his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking down.

"Horry, what do you have to be sorry for!"

He kicks a rock into the space below and it slows as it nears the water surface, "I've known you guys for like a couple hours, and I dunno…all I've done is complain about my weird problems…um, and stuff."

"Horry." Hermany says then stops, she turns and kicks another rock into the moat, and nods at it, "Horry, a month ago, I didn't know that was possible," she points at the rock as it slows and is encompassed in a roiling wavefront. "Any of this," she swoops an arm at the castle—at Romb and Daisy jumping around on the sports pitch behind them.

"A month ago, the thing I was most worried about was whether or not the library had the next Jacques book I wanted to read. Two days ago, right? Two days ago, you left your aunt and uncle's place, and you've had a ridiculous crazy world-breaking magickal adventure and almost died twice. I think," she pauses again, "I think talking about it is healthy," she nods to herself, "Or, that's um, what my mum would say. I think."

"Yeah…" says Horry, watching the waves.

"And the most traumatic thing that ever happened to me was I broke my arm trying to do a cartwheel once. And I'm pretty sure I complained about it for like six months. So I think you're allowed. In my opinion," Hermany crosses her arm.

Horry touches his arm along the magickally healed fracture, "Hm," he says.

Bells chime in the distance, and students slowly drift back towards the main entrance for dinner around them.

"I think…I miss it. Not being, uh, magickal,"

"Oh, I'm homesick too, Horry. The only way I kept from bawling the entire train ride was yelling at Romb," they both laugh.

Horry pauses, "I don't think it's homesickness—home, uh, wasn't great. It's hard to explain. Home made sense, I guess. Even if it wasn't great. I could still, like, imagine how it might be good. Could wrap my head around it…"

"Christmas isn't that far away," starts Hermany.

"Hm," Horry says, noncommittal—suppressing a confusing knot in his gut.

Romb and Daisy float down from the low-gravity pitch behind them giggling madly.

"Horry, you've gotta try this pitch. They've been playing on it for so many hundreds of years it has _thousands_ of _permanent_ rule changes. It's—it's mad!" Romb lands gently a few paces away.

"No thanks. I've been up in the air enough lately,"

"Do they use the field for anything else?" Hermany looks up at a fractal assortment of hoops and bells—each different on either end of the pitch.

"Some duels," says Daisy, landing a short ways behind Romb, "Or mock battles. Mostly sport, though."

"Sometimes two sportss at once," says Romb as they start walking up a newly-erected drawbridge.

"I'm surprised one field is big enough for ballsportss for the entire castle," say Horry.

"If they put pitches too close together, balsport games can start interferin'—I mean, they do it intentionally sometimes, but it can be a little dangerous for the players."

"Full contact rulesets are _way_ better," Daisy grins maniacally.

"Daisy, the point of sbort is _not_ to kill each other,"

"Neither is dueling!"

"Okay then what _is_ the point of dueling?"

"To dominate your opponent, mentally and magickally," Daisy says, as if reciting a dear mantra.

"Sounds like sports."

"It _can_ be, but that's not what it's _entirely_ about. It's like, it's like the difference between um cupcakes and and a magnificent, delicately crafted gourmet cake. Sometimes the cupcakes taste really good—I mean, _usually_ cupcakes taste good anyway, right?—but the gourmet cake is just _divine_ ,"

"Dueling is supposed to be the gourmet cake?"

"Yes! Of course! What else would it be!"

The Great Hall, having ambulated during their daytime activities, sits immediately adjacent to the front door, and bustles with activity. It's probably twice as busy as it had been during Searching, and significantly more older students already sit in the prime seats far from the bench of faculty. As they make their way in, Horry still detects the occasional stare, but the gossip about him seems to have percolated enough that no one is fully dumbstruck by his appearance anymore.

They sit, and another bowl of vomit appears in front of Horry who, immediately, gags.

"Oh jeez Horry, you don't have to eat that y'know? It's just the default…"

A beef wellington folds out of the table in front of Romb, a salad unwraps in front of Hermany, and a stew bubbles into a recession in front of Daisy.

"Oh…no…I did not…"

Hermany taps her wand in front of Horry on the table and a 'menu' appears. Except it isn't really a menu—it's a list of foods that seems to be updating itself as Horry looks at it.

"Okay somebody just…what's the punchline here?"

"It's your favorite food, just pick it! Don't have to have the brown slop,"

'Potato soup' sits in the middle, with auxiliary lines pointing towards a couple of different types of sandwich. He taps his bowl, and the slop flips around and is replaced by the soup.

The smell _almost_ brings tears to his eyes.

"How did they…"

"S'good, right? I mean, I think everything is better than the slop,"

Horry brings a single spoonful to his mouth, but is interrupted by a card flying into his face.

"Ahhg, really?! Again?" he tears it off of his face and looks at it.

YOU HAVE BEEN INVITED

" _What_?!"

He looks up, and Hermany has one too—but not Romb or Daisy.

"Oh! You got a club invite! Already! Maybe it's a _secret_ one," Daisy says, conspiratorially.

He turns the card around in his hand, "Does yours say anything?"

"No, you?"

"No, just that I've been invited. Is it supposed to be a puzzle?"

"Sometimes!" Daisy says cheerily, "Although probably not too tricky if they're sending them to you Moggley people, uh, no offense."

"None…taken," Horry says, as the letters disappear. He tries the soup again.

A second card flaps into his face.

Fuming, Horry tears it off.

IF YOU NEED A HINT—HE DOESN'T NEED A HINT—IF YOU NEED A HINT—WHY WOULD HE NEED A HINT—HE PROBABLY DOESN'T KNOW ANY SPELLS—SO WE'RE GIVING HIM A _HINT-_ OH IS IT STILL RECORDING? WAIT—

Horry sighs, puts his spoon down, and waits. After a beat, a third note shoots down the table, and he catches it in the air.

TAP IT WITH YOUR WAND

"Lookit Mr. Popular over here," Ron mumbles around a bite of wellington.

"It's—it's the same people! They gave me a hint,"

"What, to tap it with your wand or something?"

"Yes, uh, exactly that."

Romb snorts.

"Isn't that like the first thing you would try anyway?"

Horry rips out his buzzing wand and taps the first note.

SEVEN RIGHTS FOUR LEFTS TEN RIGHTS, MIDNIGHT

Then, after a second:

COME ALONE


	24. Chapter 20

Ch. 20

 _Time-twistors were ultimately banned for usage on additional coursework after one student managed to rack up four years worth of time in a single semester. The student ended up with such a profound case of Deutsch-sickness, that they needed to be hospitalized for over a year before causal contamination relaxed enough to allow them to continue regular function._

 _-Case Studies in Chronomancy, Vol 0., Branch 1.1.a.2.g-p_

Four hours to midnight, plenty of time for an experiment.

They sit in a recess in the Grippenboor common room, with the curtain drawn—Horry, Romb, Hermany, Daisy, and a brave new face, Pavarti, who had spotted them all not so subtly scurrying off to a corner, and had been drawn in by their collective _seriousness_.

Horry takes the wand out of his pocket and places it on the table.

"All right, we're figuring this out. Does somebody have, uh, a piece of glass?"

"No,"—all around.

"Can someone, like, summon one?"

"There's glass on the portraits?" Pavarti points at a floral scene, still except for a single bird bathing in a pond in the center.

"Can we take those down?"

"Do we need to take it down?" asks Romb.

The wand buzzes on the table. Horry pinches the bridge of his nose, picks it up, and sticks it in his ear.

A CUP WILL DO.

"It says a cup will work."

"Well I guess we could go get one…"

Five minutes later, a cup joins the wand on the table.

"Maybe, like, stick it on the side somehow?"

"I don't see why we can't just use the portrait…"

Ten minutes later, Horry's affixing the wand to the cup with a glob of mysterious 'putti' produced by Daisy.

"YES THAT SHOULD DO,"—the sound is tinnier than before, not as booming as from the portrait. Everyone still collectively jumps.

"It actually does talk!" Pavarti yells.

"Shhh! Keep it down! We don't wanna broadcast this to, like, everybody,"

"Oh, okay, sorry."

"THIS IS A VERY STRANGE EXPERIMENT."

"That is because it hasn't started yet. You," Horry points at the wand, "are going to prove you aren't evil."

"THIS DOESN'T SOUND LIKE AN EXPERIMENT AT ALL."

"Question one!" Horry pulls out a roll of paper.

"How are you actually producing sounds!"

"I AM CHAINING TOGETHER SEVERAL SPELLS. PRIMARILY: ONE FOR DISPLACING SMALL BITS OF WOOD BELOW A CERTAIN SIZE THRESHOLD, AND ANOTHER FOR RETURING OBJECTS TO WHERE THEY WERE MOMENTS BEFORE, ELASTICALLY. THE OTHER SPELLS ARE FOR STABILITY, AND FOR REPEATED CASTING, FOLLOWED BY A SERIES OF SPELLS FOR SPEEDING UP A REPEATED CAST UNTIL MY OSCILLATIONS ARE AUDIBLE."

"Your wand knows spells?" Pavarti exclaims, but tapers off into a whisper, "That's so cool!"

"No, my wand _claims_ it knows spells. Prove it!"

"I COULD PROVIDE A MAGICKAL CERTIFICATE THAT I AM TELLING THE TRUTH, BUT IF I WERE BEING HONEST, WHICH I MUST DO AS YOUR IMPLEMENT, MASTER PATTER, I COULD LIKELY PRODUCE A CERTIFICATE THAT WOULD CONVINCE YOU I WAS TELLING THE TRUTH, BUT WHICH DID NOT ACTUALLY MAGICKALLY CERTIFY ANYTHING AT ALL."

"How..doesn't..doesn't that mean magickal certificates are worthless!"

"NO, JUST THAT A TREMENDOUS EFFORT IS SPENT ON VERIFYING MAGICKAL CERTIFICATES IN WARIZARD COURTS."

"Okay fine, then can you give us the spell, um, numbers or whatever?"

"NO, BECAUSE THEY ARE NOT KNOWN TO ANY OF YOU."

Hermany sits in dumbstruck awe. Romb stares at the stick, confused. Daisy eyes it suspiciously, and Pavarti looks happy to be part of the circle.

"I can guess this already, but, if I did know them, would you tell me?"

"YES, ACTUALLY."

"Is that, like, a _rule_ , or something self-imposed…or…?"

"MASTER PATTER, I MENTIONED THIS BEFORE, BUT THIS IS _YOUR_ ADVENTURE. IT WOULD NOT DO YOU ANY GOOD TO RELY ON ME AS A MAGICKAL CRUTCH, AS IT WERE."

"That's! Okay I guess that's reasonable…"

"Horry…your wand is…this is incredible…" Hermany still watches it, mouth slightly agape.

"Okay, next question: how do I know you're not somebody just remotely controlling the wand and leading me to some, uh, nefarious ends!"

"YOU HAVE NO WAY OF KNOWING THAT, SHORT OF ANOTHER MAGICKALLY DUBIOUS CERTIFICATE. BUT CHOGBORTS IS ENCHANTED TO MAKE SUCH REMOTE CONTROL TERRIBLY DIFFICULT TO DO. THAT DOES NOT, HOWEVER, RULE OUT ONE OF THE FACULTY AS BEING MY PUPPETEER. OR THE HEADMASTER, OF COURSE."

"Why are you being so helpful suddenly!"

"MY MOTIVES—ULTERIOR OR NOT—SEEM TO BE BOTHERING YOU A GREAT DEAL. I STRIVE FOR EXCELLENCE IN MY ENDEAVOR AS YOUR IMPLEMENT, MASTER PATTER."

"There's no way this is just a normal hex," says Romb, "Usually they're just a couple canned responses—like, like, you say 'sandwich' and it says 'GO TO THE PIGGSPORT INN TO EAT SANDWICHES' really loud or something. There's no way…"

"AH, BUT I COULD BE SUCH A LIST OF 'CANNED RESPONSES', MISTER WALLABY. 'I' WOULD JUST NEED TO BE A VERY LONG LIST."

"It knows my name!" Romb jumps.

"Yeah, I think it can sort of read minds…" Horry trails off. Romb looks increasingly worried.

"But you'd need to be much more than just a list—you'd…you'd need rules for context, and and even _how_ people are saying things. It's…you're…" Hermany trails off again.

"INDEED, MISS GRINDER, BUT SUCH A SET OF RULES COULD NONETHELESS BE STRUCTURED INTO A VERY LONG LIST, AND 'I' COULD BE NOTHING MORE THAN A MINDLESS TENANT, SEARCHING FOR THE CORRECT RESPONSE GIVEN SOME PARTICUAR SET OF INPUTS. IT WOULD BE A DELIGHTFULLY SIMPLE SPELL."

"But that list would be…it would be _outrageously_ long! You'd…you'd have to have a response prepared for every possible interaction!" Hermany says, sitting up in her chair a bit.

"QUITE TREMENDOUSLY LONG, BUT I SHOULD REMIND YOU THAT YOU'RE CURRENTLY SITTING IN A SCHOOL WHICH HOUSES A LIBRARY THAT CONTAINS EVERY BOOK THAT COULD EVER POSSIBLY BE WRITTEN."

"So…you're just…a list?" says Romb.

"NOT NECESSARILY. I SUSPECT A SIMPLER RULESYSTEM COULD PRODUCE MY BEHAVIOR, BUT THAT I COULD STILL BE BEING CARRIED OUT BY A MINDLESS TENANT, FOLLOWING THOSE SIMPLE RULES."

"This is…you're…" Horry pinches the bridge of his nose, "this is a famous thought experiment. You're trying to give us a _lesson_ while we're trying to interrogate you!"

"I WOULD SAY I AM SUCCEEDING, BUT YES, MASTER PATTER."

"So you're mindlessly following a bunch of rules?"

"No! Ahhg, it's—the whole point is that the mind _is_ the list of rules. Or rather, I think the guy who came up with it thought the whole idea of, like, a computer that could be alive was stupid, so he thought this thought experiment would make it seem obviously ridiculous,"

"So it's a computer?"

"Not really…sort of?"

"It _is_ kind of ridiculous…"

"You're a Master wand," says Hermany, "an original." They all pause in silence.

"A GOOD GUESS, BUT I AM NOT. THE ORIGINAL MASTER WANDS WERE ACTUALLY NO BETTER THAN TRADITIONAL WANDS FOR SPELL-CASTING. THEY WERE SIMPLY SCARCE, AND CAME TO BE A SYMBOL OF THE MAGICKAL ARISTOCRACY—THAT IS, THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO COULD AFFORD THEM AT THE TIME."

"But everyone's always raving about how they have just the best _feel_ and make spells cast so much smoother…" Pavarti starts—she seems to be taking the magickal talking wand with forbidden knowledge the best of them.

"A POWERFUL PLACEBO EFFECT. ALSO: AT LEAST ONE OF THE ORIGINAL MASTER WANDS HAS BEEN ENCHANTED TO MAKE YOU FEEL LIKE THAT IS TRUE."

"What's the difference between feeling like spells are smoother to cast and actually being smoother to cast?"

"TOUCHE."

"But it _looks_ like a Master wand," says Daisy.

"SO DO MOST OF YOUR WANDS."

"It couldn't be..." says Hermany, "…you said Doubledoor gave you _his_ wand, right? Could this be the Eldar Wand?"

"[CLASSIFIED]."

Everyone pauses again. Horry rolls his eyes, "Are you the Eldar Wand or not?"

"[CLASSIFIED]."

"Well _that's_ not suspicious at all." They all pause again, as if distracted.

"APOLOGIES."

"Next question!" says Horry suddenly, "How did you do the uh…um, on the roof. With Alvin. The twisty nunchaku thing?"

"Oh, it's a dueling wand?" Daisy cuts in.

"What?"

"Can I pick it up?"

Horry nods. Daisy lifts it gingerly, and lightly twists the middle—it _folds_ and a thin chain spools out separating the two halves of the wand.

"It's for making it harder to see what you're gonna cast. Also makes it way harder to cast things…"

"INDEED." She sets it back down, and it reels itself back into a solid whole.

"OH, AND FOR FULL DISCLOSURE, MASTER PATTER, [CLASSIFIED]."

"What?" says Horry, as an older student parts the curtain and tosses a small sphere at him.

After a brief whoosh, the room stops spinning around him, and Horry's alone in the alcove with the curtain drawn wide open. Afternoon light trickles through sunshoots in the room—alarming because moments before it was solidly night-time. Heart-rate increasing, Horry hears a chorus of giggles on the bottom floor level of the common area. He looks over the edge to see…himself?—walk towards the portal on the far wall and disappear into it.

He turns the ball around in his hand—it looks like nested rings all swirling about on recursively stacked axes, and a note hangs off the side, _in his handwriting_.

TRY A LIE DETECTION SPELL ON THE ALCOVE.

Horry sighs, and walks down to the table of older students again.

"You're back quick—dead kids can't take classes or something?" A couple of them snicker, but the older girl kicks him in the shin.

"No, I, uh. Hm. Timetravel is a thing here, right?"

"Yeaaahh…?" says the older kid.

"Yeah, okay, I think I'm in a timeloop. I got sent back to, uh, now from about six or seven hours from, uh, now, I think?"

"How in the world did you manage that?"

"Somebody threw this at me?" Horry holds it up.

"Still—needs your permission to send you back in time,"

"Hm…that…Oh. I think I know what's going on. I think I…arranged this? To try and trick…uh, someone…" Horry trails off.

"Ooookay?" says the older boy.

"Oh, um, do any of you know any lie detection spells?"

They all shake their heads 'No.'

"This is going to be a long day," says Horry, frowning.


	25. Chapter 21

Ch. 21

 _Besides their omnipresence in popular culture, actual records of Vampire are terribly difficult to locate. At least one scholar has joked, more serious than not, that even with all of the magickal things in our world, Vampire might actually just be fairytales._

 _Letter exchange list – megafauna and cryptozoology and other terrible preprints_

Horry considers exiting the common area through the portal again, but decides that the wand's answer to what happens in the case of magickal paradox was vague enough that he doesn't want to risk braining himself on a rock—even if that probably wasn't the intended lesson of the…parable. Instead, he exits out through the dragon's maw once again, which is _considerably_ less disorienting, and almost immediately runs into a professor he saw previously in the dungeon area, but doesn't really know.

"Mister Patter, I thought Horbid was bringing you to your coursework selection," she looks at him, vacillating between that permanent face of anger that seems to befall all teachers when they're speaking to children that may have done something wrong, and something approximating motherly concern.

"Oh yes, I did that, um, in the future. I…uh," he holds up the sphere.

"Goodness, Mister Patter, where did you get that?!" she whips her wand out and it flies out of Horry's hand into hers.

"Oh…uhm,"

"First years are not supposed to use _any_ chronomancy. How far back did you go?"

"About seven hours I think?"

"Seven hours?!" she _harumphs_ , "If Alvin gave this to you, I swear…"

"No, no one gave it to me. It, um, actually it kind of got thrown at me. I think I might have arranged that?"

"Why would you arrange for someone to…actually, no. I don't want to know. This is why I refuse to teach Chronomancy," she shoves the sphere in a pocket.

"What happens if I, uh, well if someone doesn't throw the sphere at me? In seven hours?"

She narrows her eyes at him, drilling into him with fierce inquisition, "Mister Patter, an older pair of students did not somehow convince you to tell this story to me, to serve as cover in the case you were caught with a magickal item you should _not_ have, but which nonetheless is a pivotal component for your part in a grand plan of tomfoolery and ruin, the scope of which was not made fully clear to you, but will _absolutely result in your downfall_?"

"I, uhh, no?"

"The first day. First day of class, and we lose another one to a loop," she takes it out of her pocket and hands it back to Horry.

"If Freb and Geordie have anything to do with this, they're being sent to the dungeon. Do _not_ use this, except for the _one_ event which has already occurred. I do _not_ want to know what will happen if I keep it. The chain of events that will result in this timetwistor leaving the lockbox in my office will cause decidedly _more_ damage than letting you keep it, and it will make me _upset_. I do _not_ like being upset, Mister Patter. 5 point deducted from Grippenboor. Please be more careful with chronomancy in the future,"

"But I didn't…"

" _Please_ avoid talking to yourself. I do _not_ want you to be hospitalized…again," she says, throwing her hands up in the air, and struts down the hall in a huff.

"Well that answers…a couple of questions…" Horry mumbles to himself as she disappears around a corner.

He briefly considers consulting another faculty member, but decides that it wouldn't be in the spirit of a blind test of his wand to include any of the possible suspects in on his scheme…at least _yet_ —unless it's Horbid. Horbid seems totally harmless in a sort of…lethal way—like a mama grizzly bear. Horry wonders if Horbid even knows what a grizzly bear is. Actually, on second thought, pretty much every creature Horbid has to deal with is probably twice as terrifying as a grizzly bear along every relevant axis, if Horry's impression of magickal Britain is at all accurate.

 _Focus Horry_ , he thinks to himself, and turns in a circle, contemplating his options.

As if on cue, a pair of older students that look _impeccably_ similar to one another round the corner and approach Horry with enormous grins.

"Oh no,"

"Hiya Horry,"

"How's the plan going?"

"I don't…you're Freb and Geordie aren't you?"

"Oh this is earlier, then?"

"Must be right at the beginning."

"Ah, well, don't want to mess with anything do we?"

"Would never do such a thing."

"Good day, Horry, talk to you later!"

They continue on past him and around the far corner, after the stern professor.

"Do either of you know lie detection spells at least?" Horry shouts after them.

"Can't hear you!"

"Ears plugged!"

"Good luck!"

"Sorry in advance!"

These are probably exactly the two things you do _not_ want to hear from someone with privileged knowledge of your future—so Horry decides that there's a good 50% chance that the older students are screwing with him. He's still thoroughly _rattled_ though.

And then he notices the sphere is gone again.

"W..wait!" He runs after them, rounds the corner, but they're gone. His groan twists into a frustrated yell.

Stewing, he makes his way out towards the front entrance—which takes _considerably_ longer than it needs to after three wrong turns, and walks towards Horbid's shack. The tours won't start for some time, so he's pretty sure he won't trigger any causal apocalypse. He'd seen the shack out castle windows previously, but never gotten a close look.

It's…well, it's a shack. No space warping magick—no ultraviolent gargoyles, just wooden logs and shingles in a neat utilitarian design. Horbid had probably crafted it himself. He leans against an _enormous_ axe, talking to a group of three older students.

The group of older students chat with Horbid by a stewpot. Conveniently, they wrap up just before Horry approaches, and Horry intercepts him as the students make their way back to the castle.

"Oi, 'Orry, aren't ye supposed to be pickin' classes?"

"I…yeah, I'm actually from seven hours in the future. I think I arranged to send myself back in time so I could try to trick my wand without it knowing…"

"Yur wand? Oh. Ohhhhhhhh." Horbid leans against his hut, nodding his head, "Ah," he says finally.

"Alvin's wand," He says, finally, with a knowing grin.

"You know about it!"

"Well yeh, I just didn't 'spect 'e'd give it to ye. Makes sense I s'pose…"

"Do you know anything about it!"

"It sounds like it's up to its usual tricks if yur already travelin' back in time 'cause of its nonsense,"

"No, like, _what is it_?"

"Well, it's Alvin's wand o' course,"

"So it's the Eldar wand?"

"I dunno if ye could say that…"

"Why not?"

"Why what?"

"Why can't I say it's the Eldar wand?"

"Say what's the Eldar wand?"

"Alvin's wand!"

"What about it?"

Horry _groans_ , "Okay. That _sort of_ answers that question. Um, you don't happen to have a time-twistor do you? I had one, but two older students—twins I think?—took mine,"

"Oh Chronomancy's real dangerous, 'Orry. Don't wanna be messin' with that this early. I wouldn't worry too much. Things'll sort out. They 'ave to!"

"That…huh. I didn't think of it that way. Oh, but I still want to try something. Um, do you know any lie detection spells?"

"Err…a couple. For catchin' yur wand in a lie? I don't know if that'll work...I know one that makes somethin' distractin' 'appen if someone lies, but ye gotta cast it on 'em direct-like. Ummm…oh, I know!"

Horbid lumbers into his hut and rummages for a while. Horry hears pots clattering—possibly the sound of sand being poured?—a _tremendous_ cracking noise, like wood splintering—and then some flowing water.

"Ye said two older students that looked like each other, right? Wasn't Freb and Geordie was it?"

"Does _everyone_ know who they are?"

"Nah, they're just regular rapscallions. I'll sick the delmogalofax on em next Creatures class for ye, if ye want. Might make 'em think twice 'bout messin' with time…"

Another tremendous crash heralds Horbid's return—mug of something steaming in one hand, and a book in the other.

"That…probably isn't necessary," Horbid hand Horry the book.

"This'n's tricksy. It's really a chain o' spells from an ollllld book o' pranks I had back in me school years. Tries to detect dishonesty, but it ain't foolproof. Makes candlelight flicker if someone's lie'n. Unless they took the regular precautions o' course,"

"Right…," says Horry, flipping through it. It's a story about a bankrobber.

"It's…it's so weird how they're all _stories_. Where did the story _come_ from?" Horry says, absently, turning the pages.

"From us o' course! Well, that's one o' the leadin' theories, anyway. They're reflectin' our ideas—wants 'n whatnot. Would be weird if a big ol' library had a whole buncha spellbook stories before there were any humans te read 'em, right?"

"Oh," says Horry—he hadn't considered that the Library might actually be older than humanity, which seems painfully contradictory. But if the Library's actually changing over time…

"Oh, um, also, what happens if I run into myself? From earlier?"

"Do ye remember runnin' into yerself?"

"Uh, no."

"Probably best avoidin' it then. S'not _forbidden_ mind ye, but it means things'll get much more complicated—might have to get past-you's memory scrubbed at some point, for example. Consistency is tricksy—dangerous."

Coming from Horbid, this revelation is terrifying enough that Horry has been thoroughly convinced to avoid himself at all costs.

"Wait…does this mean…does this mean that the Blue Eyed guy…" Horry's heartrate spikes.

"'Orry, I don't know who that was, but it wasn't _you_. Even if it looked like ye. Maybe not a real consolation 'n all, what with what time can do to a person—but when Marlin's bloody parts get involved, all bets're off,"

"That's not really terribly reassuring," Horry says, squeezing the spellbook, "uh, no offense."

"Ahh, none taken, lad," Horbid frowns, looking at the tree-line, "Like I said, at the end o' the day, things always sort 'emselves, out—whether ye like it or not."


	26. Chapter 22

Ch. 22

While Moggley references to magick in their fiction can be quaint, they are increasingly indistinguishable from the real thing. Whether this is some form of convergent cultural memetic evolution, or something more sinister, bears immediate investigation.

 _Excerpt from un[classified] memorandum from MI[classified], 19[classified]._

Horry sits on a hay bale, watching the castle for a time, sipping tea. He watches tours of the different houses of first years make their rounds of the castle, as well as a subtly different sports demonstration every hour or so—a couple of Chogbort's team members look to be practicing on the pitch in the downtime.

Horry looks down into his glass, into the reflection of his face in the tea-cup—it's turbulent, and distorted by rings of vibration from light winds, but it's still there. His scarred face.

He tries to imagine the chain of events that would lead to him attacking Alvin—to attacking a younger self. What could a younger him even _have_ that an older him would want? Why would he fall in with the same people that allegedly went after his parents, and caused so much destruction? Why had Blue eye been so _angry_?

He frowns, and swings his legs in frustrated half-arcs off the hay bale—a knot of frustration stewing in his gut. He takes another sip, and looks up at the castle, trying to find the spot he'd fallen off earlier.

That's when he sees them.

At first, he isn't sure. It looks like a pair of red-headed dots, stopping every foot or so to pause and _do something_ , and then proceeding. Then he sees another pair—on another parapet. And when he pauses to actually take in the castle—to really _look_ at it, he sees _at least_ six other pairs on different portions of the roof of the castle, only visible because of the distance between Horry and the castle.

"Horbid!" Horry calls out.

A small crash in the hut, "Aye, what is it lad?"

"What's the fastest way to the castle roof?"

Horry pokes his head out of a hatch. Looking over the edge of the platform, he immediately spots two red bowls of unruly hair. They seem to be casting spells individually on almost every brick of the top parapets of the tower.

"Hey!"

They both freeze. One looks up, "Ah, hello there…friend?"

"I'd like to offer a deal!"

The other looks up, "Who is that?"

"You aren't the Patter kid are you?"

"Horry Patter?"

"Couldn't be."

"Unless he has the scar?"

"Looks like he might have the scar."

"Hard to tell, what with the back-lighting."

"Isn't he Moggley, though?"

"You guys took my time-twistor!" says Horry.

The twins freeze again.

"Ahhh, unlikely, friend. Perhaps _you_ ,"

"took _our_ time-twistor?"

One of them reveals a sphere.

"You don't…we met like an hour ago! And you stole it!"

They freeze a third time, "Uh oh," says one of them.

"Looks like you got caught up in our wake, friend. Apologies,"

"Worth it, though! In the end, it'll be _grand_ ,"

"Is that why there's like twelve of you on the roof?"

"Oh, you saw us? That's encouraging!"

"Probably means McGloggles hasn't caught on yet. Or ever,"

The other one snorts a laugh. They pause, "What did you want again?"

"A deal! Well…sort of a deal? I'll forgive you for, uh, stealing my time-twistor in the, uh, future if you let me use it to send, uh, before-me back in time in a couple hours."

"Send _yourself_ back in time?"

"Ahh, he's tryin' to resolve a loop!"

"Fool's errand, friend."

"I just…I just need to use it once! And you guys steal it back almost immediately anyway!"

"Hmmm…dangerous work, that."

"Indeed, but…could it be part of The Plan?"

"Possibly, would need insurance. And assurance,"

"Assurance and prudence,"

"Prudence and professionalism,"

"Professionalism and _permission_ ,"

Horry's lost.

"Horry, on our honor as gentlemen, we will allow you usage of the sphere, in exchange for services rendered to us at a later or perhaps earlier date,"

"Um…okay?"

"Excellent!" the sphere flies out of their hands and boops Horry on the nose.

The world stops spinning, and it's a bit colder—light dew covers everything in sight. Morning, possibly?

Horry _groans_. He sits up, but nearly falls over when he sees himself on the far side of the platform, watching the train approach. At least he has the sphere?

He slides back down into the parapet compartment, and immediately comes face-to-face with the twins, again.

"Sorry 'bout that, Horry."

"Had to take you off the board for a bit,"

"But we have your sphere!"

They hold up the sphere with the note attached.

Horry's fighting a strong desire to scream, but also relief at finally seeming to resolve things, even if it means sitting around, doing nothing for several hours. He holds out the sphere that bonked his nose.

"Great!" they say, and it flies out of his hand into theirs. They disappear in a _whoosh_.

This time, he does scream.

The one positive thing to come from Horry's nearly-twenty-hour-day- _thus-far_ is a new-found familiarity with the castle's geography. It's a strange mixture of intuitive-sense, and mind-breaking geometry. Nothing can be _visualized_ per se, because the interior is absolutely not-space conserving, or even physically _possible_. But there are thoroughfares that seem more permanent than others, and when changes occur, the changes propagate with a twisted sort of logic.

The common rooms for example: each had lined up for the student's first walk into the castle for Searching. But it wasn't just the _rooms_ that rotated into place, it was entire hallways—even sections of hallway. Portraiture, too. These architectural primitives are then glued together by variable-length stretches of suits of animated armor and portraits of different nature scenes which _might_ never be the same. But this is hard to verify without taking pictures. Horry makes a mental note.

Rooms that expand and contract to fit occupancy needs, like the Great Hall, are particularly tricky, because some entrances and exits only exist when they're full. Thankfully, when the Great Hall is nearly packed, it isn't too hard to find a way up to the upper balconies—which _usually_ don't even exist.

Thus, Horry sits, dangling his legs between struts of a handrail—forehead pressed onto the balcony—as he watches his fateful Searching.

"This boy…does not have a soul."

A twist—a pain. The silence is _deafening_. Alvin _explodes_ in violent blue magic through the roof. Shortly thereafter, another Professor banishes past-him with a strange cage-spell. Alvin returns—words are spoken, but Horry's not really focused on them anymore.

The whole timbre of the room changes afterwards—like lights aren't shining as bright, voices hushed, air stuffy—like everything is simply less _magickal_. He already knows how it all resolves, and it's _still_ painful.

Not that it's _really_ resolved. More like—diffused? He pushes the thought away.

The Searching ends, with the very last student entering the new house. Jogelsnoorlb? Strange. Students start to file out, and the room contracts. Horry slinks out of a rapidly shrinking door, and considers his options.

He probably hasn't been found, well, Not Guilty of being a Moggley or whatever it is that happened in the dungeon yet. Most of the faculty were down there, it seemed, so he probably wouldn't find anyone useful for a while.

Horry wanders the halls for a short while, trying to avoid too much attention. Eventually, he finds himself in front of the Headmaster's Portal—empty still. Without many other options, still somewhat terrified by the magickal ramifications of time travel, and increasingly exhausted, Horry sits in a chair by the portal-entrance.

He tracks one portrait-occupant frantically running around a woodland area, spread across twelve or so portraits on the wall in front of him. Occasionally, the fellow approaches the 'eye' of the portrait, so to speak, and looks into it—brow furrowed in confusion and worry, like he's looking for something in the real non-portrait world. But then, he'll flee, terrified, back into the woods to continue his search, or whatever it is he's doing.

It's really quite terribly unsettling.

Voices echo down the hall. Finally, Alvin, a business-y looking fellow, and the Minister from earlier approach the portal entrance.

"—not acceptable. A house can't have _one student_ Alvin!"

"Every House starts small, Dietrich. Besides, I am bound by ancient laws and customs of the Castle,"

"We both know you can change those, Alvin!"

The men all stop when they spot Horry.

"Ah, Horry," Alvin pauses, "weren't you…ah. I see," he turns to the men, "one moment, gentlemen,"

"Come with me, Horry," and he strides through the portal. Horry stands, half smiles at the furious-looking old men, and follows Alvin. Everything feels like it's squeezed through a pinhole, and he lands _hard_ in a vast, well-lit room, filled with buzzing trinkets.

"Long day, Horry?" Alvin muses, sitting in his chair.

"I…uhm, yes. I was doing an, uhh, experiment. A couple hours from now. Somehow, I arranged to have myself sent back in time. And, uhm, then it kept getting worse from there,"

"How many times?"

"Three so far…I think?"

"Hmm," Alvin nods, continuing to rummage in his cabinet, "Chronomancy experiments on your first day. Quite dangerous! Though I suppose you couldn't have known that," he pauses, and frowns.

"Horry, I don't want you to be frightened, but I'm going to use my Eye for a moment, if that's alright with you?"

"Oh, um, yes sir,"

Alvin's eye builds up in a slow blue glow—not as brilliant as before—but intense enough to bathe the room in the cerulean light. Alvin looks around, left, right—up and down—nodding, shaking his head. Then he laughs, and he mumbles " _chronus_ _deus machoculari"_. The blue glow fades. Horry fails to suppress a shiver.

"I will need to have a conversation with Freb and Geordie it seems," he smiles—genuinely. He lifts a sphere from a drawer in his desk and twists it several times. Then he rolls it to Horry. He rummages in another drawer for a small rectangular tag, twine, and a pen, and slides all three across the desk.

"I believe that should resolve things,"

"Wait…but how did…how did all of this _start_ if the reason I'm getting the sphere _now_ is because I already had the…" Horry trails off.

"It would be quite difficult to say," he says, laughing softly to himself.

"Oh..kay. Thank you, um, can I—,"

"Tap it once and throw. Any target that has agreed will be sent back in time seven or so hours,"

"Oh. Right. Perfect. Can I jump forwards in time a bit? I'm…uh, getting quite tired,"

"Oh, of course, maybe until thirty or so minutes before?"

"Yes, that would be…that would be great."

Alvin turns around and rummages in a cabinet. He turns back around holding something that looks very much like a mechanical ice cream scoop.

"Oh, uhm, and Alvin…"

"Yes Horry?"

"How did you figure out how to prevent the whole world from making anti-matter?"

Alvin pauses, thinks for a beat, then, "Let's just say that every world where I didn't figure it out no longer exists," he smiles, grimly. "Ready?"

"Y..yeah," says Horry, and Alvin squeezes the scoop.

The world stops spinning, and the office is empty. Horry takes a deep breath, turns, and exits out the portal, towards the common room.


	27. Chapter 23

Ch. 23

 _Malicius cryptalid_ is easily disambiguated from its perfectly benign and identical-looking cousin, _Simplicius cryptalid_ , with a simple test. First, lay down a piece of raw meat on the colony mound. Second, run. If you survive, it was _Simplicius_.

Magickal Beasts Noteserv

While well lit, the interior of the castle still reflects the outdoors in subtle ways. Shadows run longer, pinpoints of stars sparkle through impossible view-holes, and portrait motion diminishes. When Horry spots the moon through a _real_ window, exhaustion hits him in a wave. Finally, the sky reflects how tired he actually is.

He considers for a moment what might happen if he writes something _different_ on the tag. Something like, "Don't try a lie detection spell on the alcove." Or nothing at all. Or maybe a mark on the tag? But not a mark he would have seen...unless Freb and Geordie just…steal it? Did they actually have their _own_ time-twistor, and they were just screwing with him?

Horry, a little delirious, reenters the Grippenboor common area and decides to postpone further chronomancy experiments at least until he knows enough magick to prevent people from repeatedly stealing things from him.

First, he climbs up to the alcove, and after a couple of tries, casts the lie-detection spell. There's isn't much feedback, but for a brief sheen covering the space for a moment.

"Two plus two is five," he says, and a candle flickers on the closest wall to the space.

"Okay. Good," he turns, only to spot the contingent of his past self and companions marching directly towards the stairs to the upper area. He darts into a side-booth and closes the curtain, only to remember that his past-self had almost immediately gone searching for more supplies after getting in the booth, so he peeks out, sees that it's safe, and runs away down the far set of stairs across them.

He sets up in a booth on the opposite side of the room, obscured by several fearsome skeletons, and pens the note: 

TRY A LIE DETECTION SPELL ON THE ALCOVE.

Then Freb and Geordie appear.

"Ahh!" shouts Horry.

"Ahhg!" shout Freb and Geordie, "Oh, hiya Horry,"

"Looks like everything worked out?"

"You guys are Grippenboor?!"

"O' course we are. Whole family is,"

"For generations!"

"Generations, Horry!"

"Wait! First! You do not have permission to send me back in time!"

"Ah, no need to worry,"

"Don't have any time-twistors, us,"

"No memory of using one, certainly,"

"Can't imagine what we'd do with such a dangerous thing, anyway,"

"Terribly dangerous,"

"You…w-did Alvin talk to you?"

"Doubledoor? Oh right, he said you needed help with something,"

"Right, said it was part of The Plan, and I can't say no to that, now can I?"

"Would be such a waste,"

Horry clenches his teeth, "Are you actually going to help me, or are you going to do something terrible!"

"Horry, on our honor as gentlemen—,"

"You said that already to me—today!—and you immediately sent me back in time!"

"Ah, well that's not terribly sporting, now is it?"

"Must've agreed to it, yeah?"

"Can't imagine how we managed that otherwise…" the twins each think deeply for a moment.

"Anyway, do enjoy the fireworks later,"

"Definitely, they'll be _divine_ ,"

"Unless you need help with something?" they watch him expectantly.

Horry heaves an enormous, tired sigh, "I need one of you to throw a time-twistor at me,"

One snorts, and the other guffaws, "Didn't you just finish yellin' at us about doing that to you?"

"Can't you do it yourself?"

"Yeah, why can't you do it?"

"Because I don't remember me doing it—it was a taller, older student, and I didn't really get a look at their face. It might've been one of you? It all happened very fast…anyway, this is probably the only way to close the loop! Otherwise this is all going to get worse! Probably…"

"Don't think that's entirely how it works, Horry,"

"Yeah, s'not like Time is _malevolent_ or anything,"

"Everyone keeps saying that, and I find that _increasingly difficult to believe_ ," Horry fumes, "Will you do it?"

"On one condition!"

"And only the one!"

" _What is it_?"

"[Classified], but it won't bring you any more trouble, we promise. On Grippenboor's honor," they both nod, solemnly—ultra-serious.

"…when do I learn how to do that?"

"Oh, later in first year," they smile—identical, mischievous grins.

"Okay, fine, whatever, just follow me."

Horry stands, and stomps up the stairs, towards the alcove. He pauses a few paces outside, "Alright, just open the curtain, and immediately throw this at me," he hands the sphere to one of the twins.

"Right!" they advance:

"OH, AND FOR FULL DISCLOSURE, MASTER PATTER, LIE DETECTION SPELLS DO NOT WORK ON ME."

"What?" says past Horry, as the twin parts the curtain and tosses the sphere.

Horry covers his face in his hands and _groans_.

"Freb!" Romb immediately shouts, as everyone else screams.

"What did you do to Horry!"

"Nothin! He asked for it!"

"How could he possibly ask for it!"

"I'm here, Romb," Horry parts the curtain.

Everyone yelps again.

"What just happened!" says Hermany.

"I…I don't know. I tried to arrange to have a lie detection spell cast on the alcove—without the wand's knowledge of it happening, but…"

"Oh, well…did it work?"

"Oh yeah, I cast the spell fine, uh, two plus two is five," the candle flickers above them.

"Horry, you look…terrible,"

"Yeah…it's been like 12 hours or something insane,"

"I APPLAUD THE EFFORT, MASTER PATTER. I WAS NOT EVEN TIPPED OFF TO THE SPELL UNTIL MOMENTS BEFORE THE CURTAIN WAS PARTED BY MISTER WALLABY HERE,"

Freb's face, on hearing the wand _talk_ and then say his name is an exquisite admixture of flabbergasted surprise and terror, "Horry, why is that wand talking?"

"You're…you're Romb's brothers!"

"I would say,"

"that Romb has the pleasure of being _our_ brother, but yes—,"

"You're the ones who cursed his trunk!" Hermany stands, ferocious, finger aimed accusatorily at Freb's nose.

"Ahhh…guilty? Technically it was Geordie—but it was a joint effort—"

Hermany starts to climb over the table after them.

"Yeah all right, have fun with the cursed wand—" Freb grab's Geordie's sleeve, and they _woosh_ away.

Horry rubs his temples, "Well, that was…something—where even were we?" He sits down again in a lump.

"Well, it's a dueling wand," says Daisy.

"And maybe a computer or something?" says Romb.

"And it can cast spells! Although, I guess most wands can cast spells when you think about it…"

"ON THE CONTRARY,—" Horry _jumps_.

"IT IS NOT GENERALLY THE WAND THAT IS DOING THE SPELL-CASTING—A WAND IS JUST A STICK, AFTER ALL," the wand's sarcasm is…easily detectable.

"Wait, that's right! But will any stick work? Is there something special about Olliwander's wands?"

"Or is there anything special about wands at all…" Horry continues, fog muddling his thoughts.

"I've read about powerful warizards that can cast spells without wands—and without saying any words? Maybe wands just make it easier?"

"Where did you find time to read all this stuff?" Romb squints at Hermany.

"Where _didn't you?_ You live in Magickal Britain! There's literally infinitely many pages written about it!"

"Well, it's not like I'm readin' about Moggley business all the time cause I just want to know…" the candle flickers.

Hermany raises an eyebrow, "Well then!"

"Wait wait wait, this was all supposed to be a test! The wand is just sidetracking us!"

"UNFORTUNATELY, MASTER PATTER, I DON'T THINK I CAN ADEQUATELY CONVINCE YOU OF THE PURITY OF MY MOTIVES. I COULD DRAW AN ANALOGY TO THE TRUST ONE BUILDS UPON FORGING A NEW FRIENDSHIP, BUT IT COULD ALWAYS BE THE CASE THAT NEW 'FRIENDS' ARE TRYING TO DECEIVE YOU EITHER THROUGH MAGICK OR SIMPLER SUBTERFUGE, SIMPLY TO GAIN YOUR TRUST. EVEN I WILL ADMIT SUCH IS FAR LIKELIER TO BE TRUE FOR A MYSTERIOUS TALKING WAND THAT IT MIGHT BE FOR YOUR COLLECTED COMPANIONS, HERE. PERHAPS, THEN, IT IS BEST THAT YOU _NOT_ TRUST ME—I WOULD NOT BE REMISS, NOR UPSET, FOR I AM YOUR IMPLEMENT. A HEALTHY MISTRUST OF MAGICK WOULD DO YOU GOOD IN THIS WORLD, IN FACT."

"That's…surprisingly reasonable," Horry props his head up with his arms, "But we still don't really know anything, like, _about_ you,"

"IF MY HISTORY SHOULD EVER BECOME RELEVANT TO YOUR STORY, MASTER PATTER, I ASSURE YOU, I WILL LET YOU KNOW."

Horry's head slides down his arms until his forehead is on the table.

"Okay. Experiment…complete. For now."

"But we just got here…" starts Pavarti.

"I need…to lay down," Horry stands, "Do we have, like, rooms here?"

"Oh, yeah, there," Romb points towards a golden arch across the room.

"Yeah. Okay. See everyone. Tomorrow," Horry stumbles off with his wand—cup still attached.


	28. Chapter 24

Ch. 24

 _Partial transmogrification was considered impossible for many years. It turns out that other researchers simply hadn't tried hard enough._

-Proff. Alexandrov Kiteovich

Coarse dreams plague Horry's sleep. Almost formless, they're like concepts that vacillate between making sense—between being a thing that Horry can hold in his mind, and being a vast puzzle that's designed to be unanswerable. No words or images, all he feels is the shape of things—of sadness, of hunger, of excitement, of worry, of anxious dread. Yet it isn't so unpleasant to wake him. Only solving the puzzle will bring him _true_ rest. Unless there is no solution. Feels like there's no solution…but his unconscious doesn't notice or isn't allowed to notice the paradox.

Electricity arcs through everything—abstract, ethereal. Elemental thunderblasts. Light bathes Horry until it's all-consuming—until he's being burned away, flesh peeling, blue flames, tearing—

"This is _insane_!"

Horry opens his eyes. Early morning light suffuses the room. Pinpoints of light twinkle out the window, standing out against the bright view. Romb stands by the window next to another one of their roommates—someone Horry hadn't met yet. Eamus maybe—if the nameplates over their beds were right. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they watch the lights twinkle outside.

"Shiiiiiite, is that one o' them elephants?"

"Un _real_."

Rather than fully parse their words in his half-conscious state, Horry shoves his head under the blankets, but pauses. Elephants…really?

"Bloody hell,"

Under the sheets, Horry can barely make out a dull _boom_.

"It—it musta taken 'em _days_ to prep this'n,"

"Last year they wouldn't tell, but I think it was about two weeks?"

Despite his body's _intense_ protestations to the contrary, Horry tears the sheets off his head.

"It's Freb and Geordie?"

Neither of the boys turn from the window, but Romb nods enthusiastically.

"Gonna get sent to the dungeon for this one, they are!"

Horry groans and lifts himself from the bed. He trudges over next to Romb looks out at the… _display_.

Sparks, flames, explosions, _elephants_ whirl around in huge arcs in the sky. When Horry looks down, he's struck by _intense_ vertigo.

"Uhh, why is the ground moving?"

"Whole castle's moving!"

Horry peeks to the side, and sees that something seems _off_ about the brickwork of the castle. It's almost _slick_.

"Come on, come on, let's take a look!" Eamus says, giddy.

The boys, half pajama-clad, half covered in jackets, make their way outside to a growing cluster of observers on the far side of the now neon, shiny, and glowing drawbridge. As they turn, to take the castle in, they can only stumble backwards, in the hope that each additional step will allow another bit of the spectacle to reach their utterly baffled yet none-less hungry eyes.

The castle looks like a balloon-animal fortress. All bright, glowing primary colors, alternating, garish,changing in time, it blows in the wind, gently waving like a cartoon anemone. The sparkles, like a continuous fireworks explosion, swirl around an _enormous_ sign above the center of the castle—stark, simple, and markedly _stationary_ compared to the whirling mess around it:

FOR SALE

An elephant swings wide, soars across the drawbridge, and looses a perturbed elephantine snort.

"WALLABY!" the crowd, as one, looks down at the approaching professor.

She crosses the drawbridge, wand drawn. Romb turns to Horry, terrified.

"WHERE ARE YOU TWO?"

Romb _visibly_ relaxes, until the woman locks eyes with him, "You! Where are your brothers?!"

"Uhhhh…" he says, then she notices Horry next to him, "YOU! If you knew _anything_ about this!"

"Oh uhm, no m'am…"

She whips around, eyes surveying the collected crowd.

"Professor McGloggles!"

"Fancy seeing you here, can we be of—,"

She _spins_ and launches a spell at the pair. The crowd parts in the wake of the spell, and it strikes them, freezing the twins in place.

She approaches them along the spell-path, and taps each of their mouths.

"Speak," she says—her words ice.

"Don't know…"

"What to say…"

They struggle to form words.

"We didn't…"

"Do it…?"

She glares at them, then turns to the castle, taking it in for the first time—and her face softens. Without looking, she casts another spell at the frozen twins.

"Did you do it?"

"…no…"

"…not…yet?"

She sighs and holds out her hand. A time-twistor flies out of Freb—Geordie's?—pocket. They look _crestfallen_.

"Very well, carry on then. Do _not_ be late to your classes today," she spins, and stalks back across the drawbridge. Horry just _barely_ catches the edge of a smile on her face. "Fix it by tomorrow! Or else!"

The castle flops irreverently back and forth in the distance.

The crowd slowly dissipates, all giggles and flabbergasted exclamations, as it moves back towards the castle proper. As Horry slips back inside, as he turns back to see the still frozen twins, he _just_ catches them _whoosh_ away.

* * *

They sit in a grand class-room—all polished wood and comfy seats. But not too comfy—wouldn't do a magickal school any good to make the chairs so nice their students doze off. Unless the chairs are modulating themselves to be just precisely as comfortable as necessarily so as not to encourage tiredness. Would they do that? How squishy had his chair been moments ago?

Professor McGloggles opens the door with an abrupt swipe and strides to the front of the room. One minute left on the clock, Horry surveys the room around him—it had been some time since he'd been in a classroom. They didn't exactly summon fond memories. At least he was sitting with friends? Romb chews on a pen to his right, and Eamus picks his teeth with a quill to his left.

Students from the different houses seem to have self-assembled into clusters in different areas of the room. Ravenshards at the front, Hopplebops on the edges, Grippenboors in the middle, Slyverins in the back. Nerble—the one Jurgensnöller—sits along the right flank in a cluster of Hopplebops. Luna—hair a bit frizzy, still fairly _perturbed_ -looking, but not actively freaking out, sits up at a front corner. Horry spins around and spots Daisy and Pavarti a couple rows back chatting to each other in nervous whispers.

Horry pauses, "Is there another class?"

"What?" says Romb, his pen clearly won't last the class-period.

"Is there more than one class of us? Uh, like red and blue? Or A and B days?"

"Uhhh no? Looks like everyone's here?"

"Then where's Hermany?"

"Oh—,"

"The magick of change is the most dangerous magick you will ever know," Professor McGloggles begins.

She lifts a glass ball, "As much as we claim to know about magick, we do not and perhaps cannot know its limits, especially when it comes to transmogrification. It is a field unto itself because it defies placement elsewhere—it is a collection of spells for turning like into like, and for exchanging like into _entirely_ different. For moving things, for altering things, for shaping things. Your ability to succeed in transmogrification will be inextricably linked to your _focus_. Today, we will consider the spell _transius_. Please consult your spellbooks, and attempt to modify the spheres in front of you according to the instructions,"

Books and small wooden spheres _rise_ out of their desks, to a collective gasp of the students. Horry looks around again.

"I don't see her? Would she really be late on the first day?"

He opens his book, frowning. It's a very short children's story about a man that turns rocks into apples to feed his town—but the spell breaks, and the apples turn back into rocks. Everyone in his town dies. It's…really terribly grim.

"Professor?" Horry turns and sees Dargo's hand raised.

"Yes, Mister McFloy?"

"Why aren't we considering permanent transmogrification spells?"

"Would you like to permanently have a wooden finger, Mister McFloy?"

The boy frowns, to a chorus of Hopplebop giggles.

"Permanence in magick is often even _more_ dangerous than transience, as anyone that has ever had to deal with Chronomancy will remind you,"

"But Professor—teleportation is a permanent transmogrification, is it not? And it's used all the time…" Dargo starts again.

"Indeed Mister McFloy—but do you know the history of _telaparus_?"

"It's…I know many people were hurt when it was first discovered. But the same can be said for almost every spell. Probably even this one."

"Right again. One point to Slyverin for an excellent point of inquiry. Does anyone in this class know how _telaparus_ actually _works_?"

The room is silent. Horry looks around again, trying to see if he's somehow just not seeing her.

"Magick allowed for rapid teleportation for many centuries before the story of _telaparus_ was discovered—flight, accelerated motion, etc. These spells are simple, but they are not nearly instantaneous. Thus, one day a very luck Wekkan found a spellbook that spoke in quite difficult prose of a spell that allowed for 'rotations' about a 'keystone'. She followed the instructions of the spell—thinking it to allow short distance hops—many other spells were known to allow swapping objects, cups with plates across rooms for example, but quickly discovered that _telaparus_ allowed her to teleport short distances.

"This was terribly difficult, firstly because the spellbook is quite difficult to understand, and because of the relative nature of location. Her first such successful teleportation brought her a short distance upwards. This had a certain _feel_ to it, and required developing an intuition for the internal map used by the spell—the coordinate system, if you understand. Eventually, she had a solid enough grasp that she could go longer and longer distances.

"She told a group of spellhunters about this spell—knowing it to be far too valuable—too instrumentally useful for the cause of Warizard-kind to keep it to herself, and they collectively continued experimenting with the spell—longer and longer distances. Miles, tens of miles, hundreds of miles. Then, one day, everyone she told, including her, vanished for a week. Three were found dead, two nearly died, and she survived, only because of her familiarity with the spell, and, well, _luck_. Does anyone know what happened?"

Silence in the room. Horry feels a knot of anxiety in his gut.

"They were in space," says a boy in the front row.

"Indeed. One point to Ravenshard. Why were they in space?"

"The keystone moved."

"Right again, another point for Ravenshard,"

"Wait, how does that—why were they in space?" asks Romb.

"Teleportation must be achieved via a reference, Mister Wallaby. While it is possible a spell could be found that 'knows' how fast the earth is moving around the sun—how fast the sun moves through the galaxy—how fast the galaxy soars through the void of space, _telaparus_ does not. Even if you did, there is a great deal of evidence that there _is_ no stationary reference for the universe. When you use _telaparus_ , you are pivoting around an anchor, and that anchor is fixed in place, somewhere on the earth. But if you move that anchor, or _rotate_ it, well, your trip to Sydney just might bring you into low earth orbit. Or deep into the earth's mantle. Thankfully it was not the latter, or _none_ of them would have survived."

"Well, where was the keystone?" Daisy says.

"They did not know for quite a time. Eventually, they were able to back out how it was being transported—it's speed and direction—from how it was altering the short distance action of _telaparus._ This is how they discovered it was on a boat. This narrowed it down enough to locate it, and it was revealed to be a platinum-iridium cylindrical rod, discovered by a Moggley archaeological expedition."

"Interactions between Warizard and Moggley can be difficult at times, but, we came to an arrangement, and now the rod is safely stationary—although the Moggley do not know its real purpose…" she smiles knowingly, and the collected students chortle. Horry feels a brief wave of unease.

"So, to answer your question in a terrifically roundabout way Mister McFloy, we start small and simple because that is the safest thing we can do. The damage that can be caused by _transius_ is still immense—turning this sphere into a gas, for example, would be _quite_ hazardous. That is why we will start simple. Try simply to turn the sphere into a cube,"

The sphere in her hand _pops_ into a cube.

Dargo sighed—not so loud as to be obnoxious, but when Horry turns, he sees that Dargo's sphere is already a cube. The Slyverins to his left and right struggle with the spell, so he helps them in hushed tones.

Horry tries to push away his anxiety and focus on the task. Things couldn't go catastrophically wrong two days in a row, could they? He takes out his wand and begins.


	29. Chapter 25

Ch. 25

 _Moggley met a man on the road. Moggley said, "Ho' stranger, what's that stick?" Stranger said, "Ain't nothin' at all." Stranger walked away, Moggley kept on goin'. Moggley came home to his house, walked in, sat down for dinner. "What's for dinner?" says Moggley's wife. Moggley says, "Ain't nothin' at all." Moggley's wife says, "Why not? Cupboard's chock full." Moggley says, "Ain't nothin' at all." Moggley's wife says, "Stop playin' wit me, here, look, in the cupboard—," and she's yellin' now, opens it up, points at the cans and beans soups and fruits. Moggley says, he says—you guess it— "Ain't nothin' at all."_

 _-Overheard, drunken revelry, Piggsport Inn_

Magick…sort of makes sense? Horry repeatedly makes the precise motions indicated in the story, and repeatedly, only a small part of the sphere is turned into a cube—and only for as long as Horry _focuses_ on the cube. It seems to require almost headache-inducing focus, at that.

Romb sits, his face twisted in anguished concentration, to his right. His sphere is a sphere.

Eamus sits, bored, with a cube in front of him, to Horry's left.

"Okay—why is this—what's going on here. I know magick is like sort of reading our minds. But—but how does magick _know_ what a cube looks like?"

"I dunno mate. A cube's a cube, right? Pointy edges, all flat bits the same-lookin. Some buildin's are kinda cube-like. Uhh, y'know, dice?" Eamus shrugs, smiling.

"That's just, like—that's not what a cube _is_ though? That's just a list of facts _about_ cubes. That seems even _harder_ for a mysterious inexplicable force to latch on to—,"

"I don't…understand…why…nothing…is happening…" Romb grunts—holding his breath.

"Okay, no, this is stupid. There's gotta be a trick. No way it's this easy for you—wait, have you practiced this one before?"

"Ne'er once, mate," Eamus grins ear to ear.

"What are you doing. What's in your head? Are you, like, visualizing the cube? Imagining a certain cube of a certain color?"

"Ehhh..no, like I said—cube's a cube. Pointy bits—edges and corners. Got some sameness to it. Sometimes the pointy-bits are roundy, like, dice, so dice aren't really perfect cubes I guess…"

"Wait, you aren't actually literally visualizing the cube?"

"I don't understand?"

"I don't—you don't, have a picture of a cube in your…in your mind's eye when you're casting _transius_?"

"What, like holdin' a photograph?"

"No, like, literally—like you aren't seeing a cube? In your mind? With your, uh, mind-eyes?"

"You have mind-eyes?!"

Romb plants his head on the table, "My cube. My cube is perfect and sleek. It has nice flat edges. It has reaaaaaal sharp corners. I can put it here, put it there, put it everwhere, _except on this sphere._ It… _won't_ … _appear_ ,"

"Romb—are you, like, imagining it on your desk? Like you're looking at it?"

"Yeah, what the bloody hell else are we supposed to do?"

"Well…I guess I'm just thinking of a cube? Like, the shape of it, without thinking about where it might actually be. It's just—in the place where things I imagine…uh…are?"

"And that's _working_?"

"Well…not really…" Horry rolls the lumpy sphere-cube around on his desk.

"I think…it matters _how_ we think about cubes? Not just what a cube _is_ , cause, like, everyone probably has a different image of a cube—or not even an image—a different way of even _thinking_ about what it means for something to be a cube. Unless there really is, like, a platonic cube or something…"

Professor McGloggles swings by in her circuit of bemused observation, "One point for Grippenboor for an excellent point of inquiry, Mister Patter," and, saying nothing more, continues on her circuit.

"Oh. Oh, Eamus, you're thinking about how it _feels_ …like in your hands, right? Like you're holding it?"

"Ehhh…sorta? When you put it that way, I guess…but it's just…a cube? That's what cubes are?"

Horry's sphere snaps into a perfect cube. Romb gawks.

"Just imagine you're holding your cube, Romb,"

"That..I tried that—it didn't work!"

"Did you imagine holding it, or did you, like, visualize your arm with the sphere in your hand?"

"That…those are the same!"

"Ahh, no, so-like. Here," Horry picks up Romb's sphere and puts it in his hand.

"Y'know how that feels? Like, the actual feeling of it in your hand—," Horry takes the sphere out suddenly.

"Now that feeling is gone. Make, uh, that feeling come back. In your hand. Uh, imagine that, except if your sphere was a cube,"

Romb looks at Horry, bewildered, "But that's not what a cube is!"

"To magick…it might be?"

Romb screws up his face, and his sphere…sort of turns into a cube. It's a bit lumpier than Horry's intermediate attempts, but all of the outer material is affected.

"Bloody hell…it's…working?!" mumbles Romb.

The classroom door creaks open, and a worried-looking older student looks around the room. They stride up to McGloggles, and whisper in her ear. Concern blooms across her face, and the student leaves. Horry watches her—his anxiety building. McGloggles opens her mouth, then stops.

"If you have managed to turn your spheres into cubes, try to duplicate your spheres. I will be back momentarily," she pauses again, then strides out of the room.

"Hm," says Horry.

"Hm indeed—how am I supposed to _feel_ a sphere turn into two spheres?"

"I guess if ye push on it right?" Eamus—sphere in hand, wand pointed at it, separates his sphere into two, identical smaller spheres with a flick.

"You're—you're screwin' with us. You've done this before!" Romb points at him.

Horry's cube snaps back into a sphere in front of him.

"Guys, I think something's—,"

Alvin's voice cuts him off—it's not loud—a bit over conversational volume at most, but if comes from all directions, "Students, may I have your attention. Club activities will be suspended until further notice,"

"Bollocks!" shouts someone from the back row.

"What! Why!"

"Somebody probably broke something…"

"On the first day of class?"

"Happened last year. Maybe it's the prank?"

"Prank was _worse_ last year and they didn't cancel club activities…"

Dots connect in Horry's mind, and the anxiety borders on frantic worry. The note. The note from dinner. He'd completely forgotten about it.

He turns around, "Daisy, Pavarti, did you see Hermany last night? Uh, after the club thing?"

"…nooo? We aren't rooming with her though…did you? How was it?"

"No…I didn't go. I went straight to bed. Um, okay, hold on…" Horry stands up.

"Where're you goin'?" Romb's trying to bodily pry his sphere into pieces.

"I…I don't know. I'm…going for a walk…"

"I think you're overreactin' Horry. Hermany probably slept in or something…"

"Does sleeping in on the first day of class sound like Hermany to you?" Horry asks, incredulous.

"Well…"

"Romb, I got the same note she did! And she—she isn't here!" Horry walks to the door.

"McGloggles is gonna flay ya…" starts Eamus.

Horry cracks open the door and peaks out into the hall. It's empty except for slightly swaying suits of armor, and the queer motion of animated paint on several canvases. He slips out, and heads towards the sound of voices.

* * *

The halls are mostly barren—a student or two heading to and from the restroom. After walking for several minutes, Horry begins to feel kind of embarrassed. Is he being overly anxious? Where is he even going? What does he even expect to _find_? Better yet, what could he even _do_ about it if he _did_ find something? He knows like four spells…

Nonetheless, his legs carry him forward—he'd honestly rather suffer a little embarrassment than do nothing at all about the terrible feeling of powerless worry.

He sidles up against the corner of the great hall to the voices of Professors furiously talk-whispering at each other.

"— _you_ doing there, Quimulus?!"—definitely McGloggles.

"It's where _I_ would have hid them, had I wanted to discretely cause a tremendous amount of damage," his voice is high and tonally…off?

"That's _terribly_ convenient,"

"Are you accusing me of something, Minnie? The children are safe and sound…mostly…"—almost like every statement is made as if a question—breathy and just the slightest bit inhuman.

"And the Moggley are nearly all _dead_ , you should have intervened _earlier_ , Quimulus. This cannot be _mended_."

"I cannot imagine what they _expected_ , Minnie. They know not to poke their noses out this far, and they threatened my life. It was a warning. Self-defense if you like—,"

"Stop." Alvin's voice cuts in, and Horry jumps.

"Of greater concern is that the wards have been breached. Or fooled. Life-threatening distress should have triggered an alert for every faculty member. Immediately. I want to know why it did not,"

"The artifacts?" Quimulus asks, almost bored.

"They reveal nothing," says Alvin, with a furious edge to his voice that Horry had never heard before.

"Suspicious."

"I will handle the Warzengambit. This is salvageable. Please ensure that students do not leave the first wall of wards. That students could even be carried past the thirteenth is alarming, and will not happen again after my additional measures,"

"How do you know that, Alvin?" Minnie sounds angry and afraid.

Silence.

A sharp crack echoes out—Alvin leaving probably. Horry turns to sneak back to class, and notices his hands are shaking—his mind hanging on Quimulus' words—on his almost disinterested phrasing.

' _Mostly_ '.


	30. Interlude 1

Interlude – Corporal Hendricks

 _Studying the Dark Forest is an exercise in patience. That many of its inhabitants alter memories and perceptions is not even the half of it. The Forest is alive. And it does not take kindly to being watched._

 _Field Notes – Author Unknown_

There are training exercises, there are ops, and then there are 'training exercises'. The lattermost is differentiated from the first two by how pissed off Hendrick's CO is during the briefing, and how many questions are answered with 'it's classified'—punctuated by icy glares to the Armani suit standing in the back corner of the room, silent but for occasional glances to his timepiece that has several gems more than the zero necessary for regular combat timekeeping.

So, Hendricks sits, knee-deep in the swampy muck of Middle-Swamp Dickington-Nowhere Upon King's Bore-Hole, Britain, sights trained on a tree, for the past fifteen hours. Why a tree? Classified, corporal. Why for so long? Classified, corporal. Is there a danger, or…? Training exercise, corporal. What exactly are we training for, Sergeant? Patience, corporal. Can't ever have too much patience. Why is a training exercise classified? Classified, corporal.

Morning gave way to noon—noon slipped into familiar foggy haze, and evening faded into darkness with little more than regular checks by the twelve other such Operators—all training their rifles on random trees in this random forest.

"Maybe it's a psych-test?"

Hendricks rolls his eyes.

"Like, seein' 'ow long it takes a regular unit o' chaps to lose their Goddamned minds?"

"I know you're a pessimist, but I like to think the King doesn't believe we're so expendable, y'know?"

"Expendable? Bruv, y'know what service you're in?"

Hendricks pans with his rifle to the left and right. Darkness. Trees. Leaves.

"Least we aren't gettin' dropped into the sands, I s'pose,"

"Couple more days of this, and you might be changing your mind," says Hendricks.

"Right, so it's either drugs or separatists? Drugs, then why the army? So it's gotta be separatists. If it's separatists, why not the interfacin' with local PD? PD must be _compromised_. PD compromised means revolution _imminent_. Revolution imminent—,"

"Means twelve of us are sitting in the woods pointing our guns at trees?"

"—well. Maybe it's separatists traffic'n in drugs, y'know? Two birds, one stone, that."

"What, they're putting their drugs in trees?"

"Wouldn't be the first time!"

Hendricks rolls his shoulders and flexes his hand.

"Y'know, I almost woulda bought that story? If CO had said that, instead o' classified this'n that? Wouldn't be sittin' here, questioning my sanity. For King and country."

His radio squawks to life, "Oi, cut the chatter, eyes on something, 11 o' clock, over."

Hendricks doesn't see a damn thing. Just blackness, and grainy green fuzz on nightvision.

"Clarify, what and where, over?"

"11…uhhh…thirty? Almost straight ahead. Small group, maybe 6 or 7. Masks and, uh, robes? Please advise, over."

"What the hell…" Hendricks turns to Ashok, "I don't see anything, you?"

"Nah bruv,"

He pans with his scope again. The radio squawks, "They're…tying one of em to a tree? Repeat, directives needed. Please advise? Are these targets? Over,"

Hendricks grabs his mic again, "Eagle, repeat, there's nothing out there, my twelve or yours? Over."

An intense burst of static, "This is Overwatch, do not engage. Hold position, over,"

"Well ain't that a peach. Can't see 'em anyway," Ashok shifts on his belly.

"Nandos, this is Eagle, _your_ 11 o' clock. Straight ahead. Maybe 50 meters? Over,"

"Negative, I see nothing at all—forest is completely clear. Am I clear to move to you, Eagle? Over"

"Negative, targets would have direct line of sight—stay put, over."

"This is Overwatch. Hold position, over."

"Well alright then," Hendricks scans the woods for a fifth time, and a deep trumpet sound reverberates throughout the woods.

"The hell was that?"

"Targets are fleeing—what was that? Was that one of ours? Over?"

"This is Overwatch, do not engage. Hold position, over,"

A second hornblast echoes from all directions. It's deeper, longer. Possibly closer?

"Maybe try Fox?" says Ashok—he's rapidly shifting from tree to tree with his scope.

Hendricks switches channels, "Fox this is Nandos, we do not have eyes on target, do you fine chaps see anything, over?"

Static hisses over the earpiece.

"Ahhg," Hendricks adjusts the volume, "Fox, repeat, over,"

"… _quiet just be quiet just be quiet jus—,"_ another burst of static.

"Fox, I have interference on the line, please repeat, over"

"Nandos, this is Overwatch, return to your channel,"

"Bloody hell," says Hendricks and switches back over.

"Eagle, give me something, we're blind out here, do you need support, over?"

More static.

"Overwatch, this is Nandos, please advise!"

"Roger Nandos, this is Overwatch. Do not engage. Hold position, over,"

"This ain't right," Ashok rises into a crouch.

"Overwatch, advise. What is going on, over?"

A third hornblast— _definitely_ closer.

"This is Overwatch, do not engage. Hold position, over,"

"Comms compromised?" asks Ashok, looking back and forth, now.

"Willing to bet a court martial on that?"

"Same message, bruv. Same message over 'n over. Exact same pitch. Somethin's screwy bout this."

"Nandos to Eagle, sit rep, over?"

Static and a _screech_ , "… _silent silent just silent just be silent or we're…silent…_ "

"Nandos to Eagle, up your broadcast, getting noise on this frequency, over."

A _fourth_ booming horn, directly in front of them. It rattles the trees and leaves fall down around them.

"Overwatch this is Nandos, cannot make contact with support. Moving to make visual contact as per protocol, over,"

"This is Overwatch, do not engage. Hold position, over,"

"Alright, the hell with this, follow me," Hendricks crouches and moves low and quick towards Eagle's nest.

The transition is smooth—between a boring dark forest, and a forest that's _wrong_. The smell creeps in slowly at first—faintly metallic, like gunpowder and smoke. Then they can see the smoke. Then they can see the spent shells. They creep over the hollowed out 'nest' on the top of the nearby hill. It's empty but for more spent shells and two rifles.

"Overwatch, this is Nandos, Eagle is gone. Advise, over,"

"This is Overwatch, do not engage. Hold position, over,"

"Hendricks, _look_ ," Ashok whispers and points.

Seventy meters ahead—directly in front of their previous position—is a _thing_. A good fifteen feet tall, covered in bushes and leaves, it's hunched in front of a tree, where a person is tied. It's…scratching the tree?

"The hell…is…that?"

With its other hand, it lifts something to its mouth and bites down _hard_. It sounds like a bundle of trees getting shorn in half. It tosses the thing away behind it, and its hand _drips_. Then, it turns its attention back to the tree.

The body lands 30 meters in front of them.

"Overwatch, we have a hostile, Eagle is…Eagle is down, _please advise_ , _over_ ,"

This time, nothing on comms.

"Hendricks, bullets don't do nothing on this thing, bruv, look around you," Ashok's voice shakes.

Hendricks steels himself and sights up the thing.

"70 meters, right?"

"Six—sixty eight. No wind. 5 meter drop," Ashok fumbles with a spotting scope.

"Bloody…bloody hell," Hendricks says, aiming at its head. He counts to five, and squeezes.

It whips its head around and everything goes _wrong_.

Hendricks wakes up and screams in a gasp of air. Morning light filters just barely through the heavy foliage. Gentle wind tussles the surrounding branches. With the light, he can see the leaves around him are covered in blood.

He stands, choking out more breaths—his heart topping 180 beats a minute and looks around. Ashok is out on the hill next to him—unconscious. He shakes his head—it's like his blood is concentrated fear and his veins are about to explode. He slips and slides down the face of the hill.

He stumbles up and forwards, past the twist of gore in an SAS uniform, to the tree, and to the body of the…thing.

It's vaguely bipedal—musculature like a bull—frame of a gorilla, but more lithe. It's tilted backwards, head impaled on a spike of wood from a fallen tree. Its arm twitches in the leaves.

Tied—no, _fused_ to the tree is a young girl. It's as if she was shoved into it, and the tree bark parted around her like a liquid. Her mouth is _just_ outside the tree, and it's gasping for air and whimpering faintly. The bark around her torso is shredded, and her hands are dripping with blood.

"How…how the hell…?"

"Lucky shot,"

Hendricks whips around to a strange fellow, entirely normal in features except for his robe and turban.

"The…the hell…who are you!"

He points his rifle towards the man.

The man swipes with his arm across Hendrick's midsection, and his rifle falls into pieces in his hands. Without missing a beat, Hendricks draws his pistol, "Freeze!"

"Poor choice of wording?" there's something _off_ about his phrasing.

His hand _flicks_ and Hendricks' muscles _seize_. He falls and lands on a hard patch of rocks and dirt.

"Ahhg,"

"He said _freeze_!" Hendricks can barely see Ashok edging towards the clearing from behind the man. The man raises his arms.

"Watch out, he's a sneaky tosser…I…I can't move,"

"Drop your weapon!"

"Unnecessary," says the man, dropping something.

"On the ground!"

"The big fellow here. He isn't dead. In fact, if that small tree which he is propped against snaps, which it _will_ , _very soon,_ then—,"

"You two, down there!" voices from over the hill.

"Nandos here, comms are down, who's that?"

"Tower here, search was ordered after comms went dark. We found bodies—do you need support?"

"Yes! We have a hostile down here,"

"More the merrier," says the strange man, deadpan.

"On your knees!"

The man crouches down.

The jolting paralysis fades, and Hendricks stands. His head bleeds freely from a cut.

"Anyone bring zip-ties for this bloke?"

"Nah,"

The pair of operatives from Tower move into the clearing and consider the beast.

"Bloody hell, mate, wot is that?"

"Strangest bear I ever seen."

"Kinda like a gorilla?"

"Gentlemen, it will kill us all if you do not release me,"

Hendricks' ear-bud chatters and he plugs it back in.

"—please respond, hostile force is present, do _not_ engage, over."

"Overwatch, this is Nandos, it's a real bloody mess down here."

"Nandos? Repeat—Tower said Nandos was down. Over,"

"Yeah yeah, Nandos here. We were out for a couple hours, but I think…I think we're okay? We have a hostile,"

"Negative, Tower said you were in _pieces_. Hostile confirm, echo echo 1, over,"

Hendricks pauses and eyes Ashok. The pair of guys from Tower still have their guns trained on the strange fellow.

Hendricks turns to them, "Hey Tower, did you say—," one of them whips out a handgun and shoots him in the chest. Ashok responds immediately with a burst of bullets at the man who shot Hendricks. He takes at least two to the midriff, but not before the other one spins and shoots Ashok.

In response, the strange fellow _rolls_ and a percussive shockwave knocks the whole lot of them off their feet and through the air a few meters. Hendricks lands _hard._

The guys from Tower recover first, and whip their guns on the strange fellow. Hendricks groans and looks for Ashok—he must've launched clear of the clearing.

"We _will_ drop you,"

The one Ashok shot doesn't even look hurt.

"Unlikely."

"On the ground, mag—we know what you are,"

He pauses. Then smiles. The men shift nervously.

"On the ground!" one repeats.

"Unfortunately I will have to refuse," he says, still smiling.

The farther fellow from 'Tower' takes out a walkie-talkie, "We have a mag on-site, advise,"

Silence—a response? But in an earbud that Hendricks can't hear.

"Middle-aged Caucasian male, average height, uh, turban…robes?"

Trees shift in a light breeze.

"Roger, black and red turban, over,"

The men shift again—pausing.

"I don't suppose I have to tell you how many treaties that would violate?" says turban.

"Bloody hell, he can hear?"

There's a _tremendous_ crack and a third fellow in military gear appears. He turns, drawing his pistol in the same motion and shoots turban, who collapses to the ground.

The men all pause to watch the body. The newcomer walks up to the body again and shoots it twice more, "Alright. Put this tag on Big Ugly over there. I'll take care of the soldiers,"

"It's dead, right?"

"Close enough,"

Then, the closest 'Tower' soldier collapses to the ground.

"Shite!"

The second one gyrates in place, and is torn into three pieces which arc off in different directions leaving wet trails.

The newcomer dives out of Hendrick's view, and then he hears a hail of gunfire. Then silence. Then a slow dragging sound.

Then more silence, interrupted by soft, halting gasps for breath.

"Speak."

Gurgling noises, "Following…orders…"

"That is _painfully_ cliché, speak _usefully_ ,"

"Y—you were…t-target,"

 _That_ gives the man pause.

Hendricks _forces_ himself to look back towards the fallen 'body' of the turban fellow. It looks like…wood and leaves? The conversation continues out of his sight.

"You arranged for a trull to attack students in the woods, at the same site that moggley soldiers just happen to be having a training exercise, to lure out _me_?"

"…pre…cogs…"

"Don't work on me, elaborate,"

"…they said…intel was…causally sound…"

"Irrelevant, they always tell you that, who was intel?"

"Un..knowable…"

"Unlikely, secondary objectives?"

"Collateral…damage,"

"Obviously, _other_ secondary objectives?"

Choking gurgles.

The clearing lights up with soft light. There's a wet popping noise.

"Who?" says a voice that rattles bone.

"..l…ll…cs….mf….ly…"

The last thing Hendricks remembers is the feeling of a hot knife puncturing every joint in his body.


	31. Interlude 2

Author's note: Apologies for the long delay. Important Life Events (nothing bad!) have eaten a tremendous amount of my free time, and will continue to do so for the next month or so. Please enjoy this interlude in the mean time. Also: an earlier version of this chapter was missing a page break, which made one scene change *extremely* confusing.

Interlude The Careful Lord

 _How many plots can a man have at a time? At least one more than he knows about, of course._

 _-Saladin Slyverin, in_ Darblus Hefsteldter's _God Evil Bliss_

The room smells like ozone and sweat. It's dark, and quiet but for the faint sound of spells being cast, one after the other, like clockwork, every four seconds.

Each wand hangs from a glass bulb. Each glass bulb holds wrinkled blobs of tissue, suspended in fluids. New fluid pumps into the bulb through inlets from above, and small outlet tubes wind down and round the arms holding the bulbs in air.

The woman sits in a generously cushioned chair in the center of the ring of bulbs, eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly ajar. When she is struck by a spell, she does not move, except maybe for an occasional twitching eye. Her face does not exhibit any particular emotion—only a slack-jawed sort of peace that comes from not engaging any muscle in her face.

The first bulb, in roughly the twelve o' clock position, was a farmboy Moggley from Northern England. He'd grown dissatisfied with the monotony of a life of farming—of watching his friends go off to cities thousands of miles away—of hearing the same stories from the same people in the same bars as they collectively drank themselves to death. It was cliché—drinking to forget—but it was something he was good at. Now, it's all that what's left of him does. It forgets.

Two o' clock, admittedly, is a hack-job. But it is the best hack-job that his considerable resources could provide. A bit from a sprinter—the critical moments at the end of a race, a bit of anxiety at the onset of an exam from a poor student, and a woman, sitting with her partner, willing the moment to last forever, all topped off with a terribly complicated bit of chronomancy. Time slowed without slowing—dragged without sheering. Almost perfect, but for a hint of anxiety that occasionally bled through from the student.

Three o' clock was a case-worker who was terribly fond of coffee. A damned continent of teas, and she drank coffee. Imported. Percolated, pressed, poured-over—even instant in times of weakness, of which there were _many_ —she sipped upon it every morning in a ritual. Abstraction here is _key_. She sipped, and she was calm, centered. Everything was okay.

Five o' clock was tricky. A constant stream of ecstasy had a tendency of fraying the mind. Capturing the right moment was _crucial_ , and it had come from the satisfaction of a teacher, upon seeing a struggling student finally pass a class. The teacher still knew the child had a terribly difficult life ahead of her. And ultimately, she never became much of anything. But the teacher still took pride in that moment—hoped that the single victory he had managed to offer the woman as a child had been something like an anchor for her. It's a complicated sort of hope—yearning—pride—bittersweet satisfaction. Victory.

Seven o' clock was peace. An old woman on a lake, feeding ducks—day after day, year after indistinguishable year—chunks of bread ripped and sprinkled to the violent creatures. They looked so pretty, but the duality of it—of their wretched lives on that lake cast against their brilliant plumage—was all she needed to see the peace in her death. She would sink into the earth and be torn apart by worms, and those horrible, beautiful ducks would still be fighting over scraps of stale bread.

Nine o' clock and ten are different notes on the same theme—exhaustion without being overwhelming—the pleasant aches of a day well worn. Common, but it was still difficult to locate _exceptional_ specimens. Another athlete, and a window washer proved more than adequate.

Lucas watches her from the door frame, tapping his chin with a finger, visually verifying the circuit of spells is intact—that no vessels are leaking—that no minds are breaking. Well, any more than they already are.

He closes the door softly and returns to his desk, eyeing a threat assessment on a panel to his right. Just as he sits:

" _You are in mortal peril in fifteen seconds,"_ chimes a speaker on his desk.

Lucas pauses, heartrate rising fractionally.

"Location?"

" _One_ ,"

"Direction?"

" _Three,_ "

Current location, from the northwest. That left either the Giantess, an uppity Yakuza cell, the Russians, or …Chogbort's. Ah.

" _Ten seconds_ ,"

"Causal certainty?"

" _Red, red, black_ ,"

Little else _that_ could mean.

" _Portalus,_ " says Lucas, and a small window appears on his desk. Another him sits on the other side.

" _Oblivius_ , standard certificate,"

" _Five seconds_ ," chimes the speaker.

"Immediately."

The other him raises an eyebrow and points a wand at his head, " _Oblivius_ ," they say.

The portal snaps shut and a thundercrack knocks his doors open.

The old man strides in with lethal purpose.

"Ah…to what do I owe the pleasure, Alvin?"

Alvin stops on the other side of his desk. He stares down Lucas, face emotionless, but demeanor poised with fury.

"I believe the saying is, 'No plan survives contact with the enemy,'"

"I…apologize Alvin, but I do not follow. Did something happen?"

"Do not _insult_ me, Lucas." Alvin stares him down.

Lucas matches his gaze for a beat, but finally looks away, "I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about Alvin, though I might point out that you are technically trespassing?"

"A student was nearly _eaten_ ,"

"Things have gotten that much more cutthroat since the old days?"

"By a _trull_."

"Goodness, might want to rein in your groundskeep—,"

" _Your_ trull."

 _Foolish_. "I…do not own a trull, Alvin. They do not take kindly to mortal ideas like _ownership_."

The old man's eye bursts into brilliant light. Lucas can't help but catch his breath.

"Alvin—,"

"No."

" _Alvin_ , if I were foolish enough to make you my adversary, I would _not_ be foolish enough to do so in a way that meant using _that_ would reveal anything at all."

Silence as the old man stares into his soul.

Finally, "You know nothing,"

"Indeed."

A thundercrack, and Alvin is gone.

* * *

A portal appears across from Lucas, " _Oblivius_ , expedited ceritificate. _Now,_ "

Lucas rolls his eyes and points the wand through the portal, " _Oblivius_ ," he says. The portal closes with a 'pop'.

The speaker on his desk chimes, " _You are in mortal peril in two seconds_ ,"

 _What?!_

A thundercrack, and the old man stands across from him, eye blazing blue. Another small portal opens, and the brilliant glow diminishes.

" _Oblivius_ , standard certificate," says the him on the other side. A speaker on the other side says something imperceptible.

"Immediately," the other him says, again.

Lucas looks past the portal at Alvin, and raises an eyebrow. " _Oblivius_ ," he says, pointing his wand towards the portal, and it slams shut.

Alvin watches Lucas, silent. Then, "You're too clever for you own good, Lucas,"

Lucas eyes the threat assessments blaring in red all across Britain to his right. Six…seven…eight…all eight locations?

"Can…I help you, Alvin?"

"Burning the candle at all available ends, it would appear. For how many years now? Ten? Twenty?"

"Nothing that can't be fixed. Do I need to point out you are tres—,"

"Trespassing, yes, I'm well aware. Your trull nearly killed a student of mine,"

"You can _prove_ this?"

"Your trull nearly killed a student of mine, and I would like to know why,"

"You know that I can't answer that, Alvin. Both for the obvious reason, and literally," he smiles, thinly.

"Indeed," the old man lets the silence linger uncomfortably again, then turns, and paces about the room.

He continues, "I overlook a great deal, Lucas, because I swore to myself a long time ago that I would not become the tyrant that _he_ was. And because I know the cost of war. I do not meddle, because meddling quite often begets the very same costs,"

"And yet—," Lucas starts.

"I am going to take the certificates, and I am going to break them. If I do not like what I find, then I think I am going to take a newfound interest in meddling,"

Lucas stops himself before his eyes can waver to a picture frame on the mantle. Nonetheless:

"No, nothing so trite as that. Slyverin himself would slither his way back and strike me from history for an utter lack of creativity. Besides, I think I would lose all the remaining moral high ground that I have,"

"Alvin,"

The man turns to him, and his gaze is enough to halt Lucas' speech entirely.

"You won't be able—," but Alvin _cracks_ away as Lucas finishes, "to break…it,"

Lucas waits a beat in silence as red symbols trace along the certificates in front of him—secrecy violation seeps along the glowing symbols, triggering contingencies—auxiliary certificates—all built into the fabric of the spell, unknowable to anyone but Lucas, in principle, and invisible to Alvin, _theoretically_. As ambient danger levels fall, and precognitive alarms shut off, one by one, a parcel of memories erupts into his mind at once.

Lucas McFloy Primus speaks directly into his thoughts:

 _THREE MONTHS BEFORE HE KNOWS._


End file.
